


By Hubris of Their Making

by SappyGemstone



Series: Magic In The Blood [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 163,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SappyGemstone/pseuds/SappyGemstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinead has learned that her old master, Eluard, is alive. Asked by the Inquisitor to seek him out, she heads to Antiva City with Krem, Dorian and Cole. Meanwhile, Cole is still adjusting to his humanity - an alteration that he's finding more difficult than was suspected.</p><p>A single adventure in Northern Thedas and a sequel to An Unquenchable Flame. Multple OCs, Cole, Dorian, Krem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sylvan Wood

_Howling, hurting, hungry, heaving its limbs at its attackers, mad with loneliness, loss, despair._

Cole ducked and rolled as the sylvan swept its misshapen arm at him. Panting, he sprinted to the back of the giant creature and out of its line of sight.

“Watch out, creepy!”

He had only a split second to look behind him and duck again as Sera, atop a small hillock, released a barrage of arrows at the sylvan’s back. It roared and swung around, took sight of Sera and rushed her. Cole tumbled out of its way.

“Oop, time to scarper!” Sera jumped back and disappeared behind the hillock.

“Quickly, Cole!” The Inquisitor and Dorian stood on another hillock to his right, conjuring something that rippled with heat. “We can’t old the spell much longer!”

Cole nodded and ran at the rampaging sylvan, jumping and reaching for two of Sera’s arrows. He caught them deftly, his body slamming against the hard, twisted wood, then scrambled up the sylvan’s back. The creature barely noticed his ascent, so caught up was he in his pursuit of Sera. It crashed at the trees below the hillock that she had jumped into, shaking their limbs.

“You can light up this arsehole any time!” she cried, hanging on between two branches for dear life. 

A burst of flame engulfed the sylvan’s legs. It stumbled back, stamping at the ground to kill the fire. Dorian and the Inquisitor kept up a steady volley of fireballs to feed the flames. Again the sylvan roared, stomping toward Dorian, right arm lifted.

Cole moved quickly – he unsheathed one of his knives, shimmied over to the sylvan’s right shoulder, and slashed at the vines and branches attaching the arm to the sylvan’s body. The knife cut through the wood as if it were sinew, and the arm dropped slightly.

The sylvan stopped it’s advance, confused, as Cole climbed a little higher and chopped at the rest of the joint. The arm fell from the sylvan with a crash. It snarled and slapped at its back with its left hand. Cole dropped down the sylvan’s back and scrambled to its left joint, hacking away with precision until its left arm fell.

The sylvan spun around, moaning, trying to shake Cole off. He held on so tight that his pale hands grew white.

“Drop, Cole!” Dorian cried. “I’ve got your back!”

Cole closed his eyes and pushed off the sylvan’s back. He crashed to the ground, but barely felt the impact, his body surrounded by a barrier.

Dorian and the Inquisitor fired rivers of flame at the sylvan, lighting it up from the inside. It moaned again and crashed to its knees, then grunted and toppled over. The mages let the fire crackle for a bit before the Inquisitor unleashed a blast of cold wind over the sylvan, smothering the fire in ice.

“That thing was a right bugger,” Sera said, sidling up to the silent sylvan and giving its smoldering leg a kick. “I hope killing this thing was worth the trouble.”

“It was hurting, helpless, angry. It’s better this way.” Cole pushed himself to his feet, sheathed his knive and placed a hand on the creature’s side.

“It will also be worth it to us,” the Inquisitor said, brushing frost from the wood. “The Ortholae clan will be pleased that we killed the beast that’s been plaguing their hunts. And they’ve already said they’re happy to grant us the wood. We’ll have to get the scouts out here…”

The sound of the Inquisitor’s voice slipped away from Cole. The sylvan wood tugged at his perception, feeding him memories, emotions, and behind these a tangled web of abstract lines and the metallic tinge of magic. The spirit within the sylvan had been trapped for generations, unmoving, unable to reach its home, trapped to infuse the wood in which it was imprisoned with its power – horrible creatures, the two-legged things with the pointed ears, why did it want to hurt it so? Did they care? Did they know what they did, the torment it felt in this unmoving land? What –

“Cole,” the Inquisitor said sharply. “We’re ready to go.”

He took his hand away and looked around the little party. “It was so sad,” he said, his voice low.

Sera snorted and crossed her arms. “Whatever. Seemed more ‘angry’ and ‘killy’ to me.”

“The wood feels strange,” he continued, ignoring Sera’s comment. “It sings a song that smells like silver.” He cocked his head. “It reminds me of you, Inquisitor. Or Sera.”

“Really? How odd.”

Sera threw up her hands. “Nope! No. Don’t you dare start letting him go on about elfy things,” she snapped at the Inquisitor.

“It might not be elfy,” Dorian said, his interest peaked. “Perhaps it’s the magic?”

“Even worse!” Sera grumbled.

“It is and it isn’t,” Cole said, trying to twist the feel around in his mind, trying to understand. “Your magic doesn’t feel like this. It does feel similar, the way it pulls at the fade, but the smell is wrong. The sound is wrong. It’s…hard to explain.” He brightened. “It also reminds me of Sinead.”

“Hm. Well, that cuts out the elfyness. Could be a Tevinter variant in the use of power that makes the magic ‘feel’ different,” Dorian muttered, stroking his chin. “Perhaps Sinead’s early exposure to the Brecilian forest –“

“All right, I’m going to camp.” Sera marched off into the woods. “I’ll see you crazy people there. Or not. Who cares?”

“I’d also like to get back to camp, if you don’t mind,” the Inquisitor said kindly, patting Cole on the back. “That spell wiped me. And I’m starving.”

“Oh, very well. If no one is curious about the mystical wood from an elder sylvan, far be it from me to stop you from filling your tummies.” Dorian’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Come along, Cole, not everyone appreciates the more fascinating aspects of the arcane.”

Cole was barely paying attention. The sylvan wood still drew him…something about those lines…

He unsheathed his knife and hacked away a sizeable chunk from the sylvan’s shoulder.

“Oh, your poor knife,” the Inquisitor exclaimed as he worked. “There’s no way the edge isn’t notched now. We’ll have to replace it.”

“It’s not my favorite knife,” Cole explained good-naturedly, pulling on the hunk of wood until it cracked away from the sylvan.

“Do I want to even ask what you’re planning to do with that?” Dorian asked.

“I don’t know yet.” Cole turned the wood in his hand. “It feels like it wants to be… _something_ …”

“I hope it’s worth more than your knife,” the Inquisitor muttered. “Come on, let’s head back to camp.”

Cole nodded, following behind Dorian and the Inquisitor, not joining in with their pleasant chat. The wood sang in his mind – even when he closed himself to it, it pushed through and needled his thoughts. Memories inside memories inside emotions. It made him wonder who the spirit that became the sylvan once was.

It wanted to hunt, to kill, to know the end of those who hurt others.

It wanted revenge.


	2. The Dagger

_Dear Master Tethras,_

_Your Satinalia gifts have arrived! Just in time for the holiday. I cannot thank you enough for the lovely pen and ink set. It's an incredible piece of machinery – even better than the original you lent to me. It has yet to leak, and I look forward to a worktable not covered in black dots at the end of the day._

_I'm glad that your cufflinks made it to Kirkwall. Dagna and I worked hard on the design, she more than I of course, though Cole was the one who carved the original mold, if you'd believe it. I suppose Blackwall's determination to make a connection with Cole through woodworking was successful. He claims he made the little crossbows look like "how Varric sees Bianca in his mind." You'll have to let me know if he succeeded in his effort._

_All continues to be well at Skyhold. Dignitaries are in and out, and there have been a few puzzles for the archivists, but nothing truly terrible is at our gate. I suppose when the world's end no longer feels as if it's right around the corner, Tevinter rattling its sword at Nevarra is like watching two children squabble on a square. But as you said, even a spirit-possessed dragon seems like a minor to do when the sky is being torn apart. I wonder if this is what Fereldens who stayed in country throughout the Blight felt like when the archdemon was felled._

_Skyhold is busier than ever, but I've noticed that the Inquisitor is subdued as of late. Her circle is a bit smaller, I suppose – Blackwall off with the Wardens, Lady Cassandra – that is, Divine Victoria – with the Chantry, the Lady Vivienne with her Circle mages at the White Spire, Solas doing Maker knows what, and you back in Kirkwall trying to right that upended city. Be careful! They may force a council position on you if you keep spreading your wealth._

_There are many who still miss your presence, sir. Master Pavus says there's no one to balance Sera's wit and the Iron Bull's innuendo (though I'm not privy to either, and for the former I believe he was joking). Cole, of course, misses you terribly. He asked me not to say so, but he sighed and said 'nevermind' because he knew I'd say so anyway. I know you worry for him, but you were right – he is doing well without you or Solas on his shoulders telling him how he must be. He is still himself, only more. And he becomes more every day. That he did want me to write to you._

_I suppose I should end this letter. I can hear the musicians in the Great Hall tuning their instruments, which means Lady Montilyet will be looking for me soon. More's the pity. I'm to wear a mask and play the part of a wounded swan. She's told me the nobility will find it quite charming. The dress I'm in currently is a white, ruffled nightmare. You'd find it hilarious._

_Have a most wonderful Satinalia. And please return soon, though I know you've only promised your services for the direst of reasons. Please don't make me start a war to see you again within the next year._

_Yours,_

_Sinead_

Sinead sighed, set down her pen and stretched. The dull rumbling of voices in the Great Hall beckoned her to do her proper duty as one of the upper ranks of the Skyhold staff and make nice with the visiting nobility. Josephine had indeed trussed her up like a stuffed bird in a gown of Orlesian style, though without the glorious colors or the hat. Her hair was uncharacteristically down and had been curled in ringlets, and a white feather mask had been tied tightly to her head while her dead arm was hidden under a small feather cape to complete the look. It was all quite itchy.

"Absolutely stunning," Josephine said when Sinead's preparation was complete, delighted in her waiting lady's work. "The Inquisitor will be the masterpiece of the masquerade, of course, but you have to be one of the interesting diversions." She was already dressed herself, wearing a fennec mask and a long, gold tunic.

"I'm not sure how diverting I am, my lady." Sinead pushed a few ringlets away from her cheeks – they kept sneaking up on her from the sides of her head. "Unless the nobles don't mind a long conversation about the deviations in ancient Tevinter dialects."

"You'd be surprised at the strange and varied hobbies of nobility." Josephine smiled. "Now remember, we'll begin promptly at eight. Do be on time tonight, or at least a reasonable fashionable lateness. It'll be difficult enough to keep some of our more…interesting members in line without wondering where my head archivist is."

Sinead checked the candle clock on the library wall. She was cutting it close – already a few moments before the music would begin to play and the guest introductions would be made. But she was loath to leave the comfortable quiet of the library stacks. She had locked the library doors for the days long Satinalia festivities, giving everyone some well-deserved time off. But she snuck in with regularity to hide away from the preparations and the revelry for as long as she could.

The soft click of one of the door locks startled her. She stood and peeked around the stacks. The door leading to the battlements eased open, and Cole slipped inside.

"I need to ask for better locks," Sinead said, smiling as she rustled over to him. "Or would that be useless?"

"I think so." He held up the picks he'd use to open the door before pocketing them. "They're very  _good_  tools. Leliana gave them to me."

He wasn't dressed for a masquerade, though he was also not in the old leathers he used to wear – before he left for Kirkwall, Varric convinced Cole that a simple shirt, tunic and trousers would help people feel easier when he offered them help. And, surprised to find that advice to be true, Cole took to wearing the same clothes as the Skyhold servants. Aside from, of course, his hat, and a thick, blue, cotton scarf wrapped around his neck for warmth.

He cocked his head and examined her outfit. "I don't think you look like a swan either," he said with a shake of his head. "But you also don't look like a lace pillow. You look like a lady wearing a dress. A… _fluffy_  dress."

"If you're going to dig in my head, you need to get better at recognizing metaphors," Sinead grumped playfully. "And I thought you were helping in the kitchens tonight. They must be in a tizzy right now!"

"They are, and I am, and I will. I thought you were going to dance with the masks within masks?"

"Unfortunately." She brushed her hand over her skirt. "Who knew being the head of a library would require so much dancing."

"Josephine," Cole said automatically. "…Sorry. That was a rhetorical question?"

Sinead laughed. "Someday it will stick, I promise. Now why, pray tell, did you come all the way up here? Certainly not just to tell me I don't look like a water bird?"

"No." He fidgeted a bit. "So many people have given me gifts today – the Inquisitor, Dorian, the Iron Bull, Varric, Leliana, Cullen, the surgeon, the cook, Lily from the kitchens –"

"Oh, my, so many Satinalia gifts!" Sinead's eyes danced. "Such a popular person you've become now that people have the chance to get to know you."

"- and you." Cole finished, pointedly ignoring her comment. "If I find something someone will like, I don't wait for a special day, because it gives them a moment with a memory, a meditation, an emotion. Why wait for that moment?"

"To celebrate the day."

"Why?"

"Because it's – there's a history behind – see, when the Old Gods – " The first bell rang in the Great Hall, signaling the beginning of the masquerade. "Drat. You've asked a question that will take hours to answer when I've only minutes."

"But you will answer it? It's been whirling around in my mind all day, but all anyone says when I ask is 'because that's how it's done,' which isn't an answer, it's a closed door."

"Oh,  _now_  you understand metaphor." She grinned, thinking  _you understand more than you let on, you cheeky rogue_.

He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it with a small smile.

"Of course I'll answer it, as soon as I'm able." She stood on tip toe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Now I must be off or Josephine will tell me she is  _most disappointed_."

"Wait." He quickly took her hand, keeping her from turning away. "I have to give you your gift."

"But I thought you had no gifts to give for Satinalia?"

"Not for Satinalia, no." He carefully removed a dagger in a red leather scabbard from his belt that she had not noticed before, given his propensity to wander Skyhold armed with daggers and knives at all times, and held it out to her.

She gave him a quizzical look, then took the dagger by its hilt and pulled it from the scabbard. She walked over to her worktable and held it up to the candlelight. The blade gleamed silver-blue, its double edges winnowing down to a long, sharp point. The hilt was made of sylvan wood, its cross guard thick, rounded, and slanting toward the hand, its pommel spherical, its grip wrappen in the same red leather as its scabbard. Intricate lines were carved into the pommel and cross guard, swirls within swirls, geometric shapes that intersected each other. As Sinead studied the carvings, her excitement grew until she was smiling in wonder. The second bell rang for the masquerade – she barely heard it through her cascade of thoughts.

"These lines – I've seen these before," she said, her words tumbling from her mouth, trying to keep up with her thoughts. "These match ancient – positively  _ancient_  – murals found in elven ruins. The speculation of their importance is rampant and scattered aside from the agreement that they are important, and – this is incredible!" She looked up from the dagger at Cole, who stood outside the light of the candle. "Did you carve these?"

"Yes." He was pleased, almost bashful. "It's what I see in the wood's memories."

"I can't even begin to – this is from the sylvan you killed a few months ago in the Emerald Graves, then? Of course it is, you told me – I don't even know what to say, how can I – " She firmly held the dagger out to him, hilt first. "There is no possible way I can accept this. It's a work of art, Cole. You should carry it."

"Oh, no, I can't!" He scrambled forward and pushed it back to her. "The sylvan wood reminds me of you, not me. It has to be for you."

"Not a good enough reason," she said, shaking her head. "I'm deaf to woody memories."

He paused, then tried again. "Harritt helped me with the blade, and when I said it was a gift he made it much sooner than he should have because he thought it was for Satinalia. He'd be angry if he saw me carrying it around."

"No, still not good enough. Harritt made his choice. Besides, when am I ever going to make use of a dagger, much less a masterwork like this? It would be wasted in my hands. Or, hand, as it were."

Cole brightened. "But you will have use for it." He took the dagger from her and sheathed it. "Every time you use blood magic, you have to ask someone else to cut you because you never have something sharp with you. Or you bite yourself, which hurts and leaves tooth marks, even after you heal yourself. You  _need_  this dagger." He leaned down and buckled the dagger to the thin belt that cinched in the acres of white fabric draped over her body, then rose and smiled with satisfaction. "Now you have no reason not to keep it."

She was still a moment, wavering between refusal and acceptance. "Your point is difficult to argue against. Though don't tell Cullen, please – he'd have an apoplectic fit if he knew I was carrying around anything for use with blood magic." She took his hand. "Thank you. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever held." She ducked her head, embarrassed. "Rather more lovely than what I gave you."

He arched his brows in surprise. "But…it's Storvacker!" He grinned and held up one end of his scarf, displaying the bear that Sinead had embroidered on it over the last few months. "It even has her stripes of paint! I'm going to show her next time I see her – I think she'll like it, too."

The third bell rang from the Great Hall.

"Oh, I'm officially late now. I must go," Sinead said frantically. She hugged him, then turned and ran to the stairs, pausing at the top step and looking back. "But – why a dagger? Why not a carving of a griffin, or a bracelet, or some other trinket?"

"Because the wood wants blood," Cole answered matter of factly. "It won't get what it wants as a  _griffin_."

"Oh. Of course." She descended the stairs, not thinking of druffaloes as hard as she could so he could not hear her bemused thoughts about that ominous answer.


	3. Masquerade

The masquerade was an elegant affair, Inquisition banners hung from every wall, the long tables removed from the hall to make room for the crowd of guests, servants holding plates of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of wine. There was dancing in front of the dais, the latest waltzes and gavottes and minutes from Orlais. Nobles from all over Thedas were in attendance, masked like animals or famous historical figures, or in the case of one ambitious Antivan lord the abstract concept of Valor (it involved many flowing green ribbons and a bouquet of knives). Josephine had told Sinead in a tizzy that the most vied for invitations this season were for the Inquisition Masquerade and Empress Celene's Satinalia ball – and that there were some nobles who risked the Empress's ire by attending the Inquisitor's event over her own.

The Inquisitor was as impressive as Josephine claimed she would be. Rather than wearing the Inquisition-standard formalwear, she was decked in a great flowing gown of green and white and a mask reminiscent of the Dalish Mythal vallaslin – the very vallaslin of the Inquisitor's.

Sinead stood by the wall near the fireplace, sipping at her wine and trying her best not to be noticed as she the Inquisitor sweep through the hall greeting the nobility.  _She's grown into her role so well_ , she thought with admiration.  _I wonder if she even realizes it_.

As she watched the Inquisitor, a quiet conversation to her right caught her ear.

" – and it's madness," a Naverran noble said to a Ferelden peer. "They're trying to claim that it's a coincidence, the last dregs of the mage rebellion, but you can tell that the Mortalitasi are nervous."

"Still, groups of mages traveling between circles simply…vanishing?" The Ferelden said in hushed tones. "Are we sure that it's not another revolt in the making?"

"Perhaps, but not in the way you're thinking," the Navarran said darkly. "These Flames of Andraste may seem harmless, but the –"

"Look here, ma chère, did I not tell you she would be here?" A young Orlesian nobleman in a bright peach mask pulled forward a young woman masked in light blue with gold edging, breaking off Sinead's eavesdropping. Both were dressed in the current Orlesian fashion, with a particular slant toward precious gems lining the collar. "La Belle de Lotus Noir, and with her broken wing on display!"

Sinead blinked and lowered her glass.  _Curse that wretched nickname,_  she thought as she smiled, trying to remember if she had met these two particular nobles before. Many passed through her library, and there were a number of dinners she attended while on her surprisingly exciting trip to Val Royeaux nearly a year before.

"It's wonderful to meet you," the young woman said with a small curtsy. "I've heard so much about you from my dear Philippe."

 _Drat, I HAVE met him_ , she thought as she smiled and said, "You don't have to curtsy. I'm a librarian, not a noblewoman."

"Oh, but…I have heard you are both, my lady?" the girl said, uncertain.

"Don't worry, Angelique, La Lotus is very bashful. Look, see how she blushes." Philippe laughed kindly. "When I first met her in Val Royeaux, it was just the same – modest to a fault."

"How charming!" Angelique gushed, clapping her hands. "A sweet naiveté! I can certainly see you throwing yourself in front of a demon to save your beloved. Tell me, did you truly burn it to ash with the power of your love?"

"It…wasn't  _quite_  like that," Sinead said with a pained smile, feeling hot beneath her mask. "Goodness, do you hear that allemande? An elegant dance, don't you think? Surely the two of you aren't going to miss it?"

The two nobles laughed.

"You won't rid yourself of us so easily," Phillippe said gayly. "Why not be the one to join me in a dance, La Lotus?"

Sinead balked, but remembering Josephine's desire for her to be a "distraction" for the nobles, she bolstered herself and set down her glass. "I suppose I must. But I assure you, my lord, I have two left feet."

Instantly Philippe took her free hand and led her to the front of the hall, swinging her around in line with the other dancers.

"You don't remember me at all, do you, my lady?" Philippe said, amused.

"You've found me out," she said good-naturedly as she matched his steps. "I apologize, my lord, I met quite a lot of nobles in Val Royeaux. For what it's worth, your mask is memorable."

"A pity I didn't make an impression." The lord spun her, crooking his arm near her 'broken wing,' and they promenaded together. "You certainly made an impression on me, La Lotus. In fact – " he leaned close to her ear, " – I had hoped to get to know you better during my visit at this delightful mountain retreat."

Sinead stumbled in her step. "I – but what about Angelique?" she stuttered, surprised.

Philippe chuckled. "She's my betrothed, not my beloved. We have an  _understanding_." He turned her again as the dance ended and the dancers applauded. "Would you like to take a walk on the battlements, my lady? Perhaps you can show me the more… _secret_  corners of Skyhold?"

The panic rose within her, squeezing at her chest. "I'm sorry I'm…not quite in the mood for a walk at the moment," she said breathlessly, trying to keep the panic from washing over her. "I must attend to the other guests. If you'll excuse me, my lord."

"As you wish, La Belle." Philippe grinned as she pulled away. "There will be time. The night is young!"

Dizzy, she walked as quickly away from the lord as she could through the crowd. Everything was too loud, too hot.

The proposition had come out of nowhere. She was aware that there were those who found her desirable, and if she ever had any doubt, Cole told her over a year ago that it was so. And she had experienced a modicum of flirtation from staff and visitors in the library, and during her journey to Val Royeaux. But a direct proposition of her person had not occurred since… _Rein_. It made her feel unclean, and she could not pin down why.

 _What is wrong with me_? She thought frantically, edging against the wall and leaning against it for support.  _It's not normal to react like this to something so easily dismissible_. I'm  _not normal_. She felt terribly alone.

"A moment of your time, Lady Archivist." A hand took her by the elbow. Leliana, dressed in black with a plumed mask, was at her side. She quickly led Sinead through the door to Josephine's office, closing it gently behind them.

Sinead collapsed on one of the settees near the fireplace, leaning forward and taking deep shuddering breaths.

"What brought it on?" Leliana asked quietly, crossing her arms.

"My own foolishness," she gasped, crumpling the skirt of her dress in her hand. "One licentious noble undoes me."

"Ah." Leliana hid a smile in her shoulder.

"I know, it's ridiculous." Sinead leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I don't mean to make light of your condition." Leliana sat next to her, her tone concerned. "I do admit that I worry about how quickly these episodes come on, and how they are seemingly from nowhere."

"Well, luckily I'm never in a position where it will cause any great harm. Aside from embarrassment, I suppose." She opened her eyes as the room stilled. Then she narrowed them. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Come with me."

Leliana helped her from the chair and led her, rustling, downstairs and into the depths of Skyhold – past the vaults and into the old library. There, next to the ancient desk, Josephine stood, along with Cullen (who made no attempt to dress up for the masquerade), and the Inquisitor in her traveling kit.

Sinead stared at the Inquisitor, blinking. "I – but I just saw you upstairs," she blurted.

"That's the wonderful thing about masquerades," Josephine said with a smile. "All those  _masks_."

"We're going on a trip, Lady Archivist," the Inquisitor said. "Sorry about the suddenness of all this, but it couldn't be helped."

" _What_  couldn't be helped? What's going on? You're all giving me rather dire looks, and it's making me nervous."

Leliana walked past Sinead and sat on the desk. "We found your old master, Eluard. Or Eluvio Literan, as Solas claimed his name was."

Sinead's heart flipped. Her breath grew short again. She took a step back. "And?"

"And it turns out that he's more than just a kindly old man training apostate children in the woods."

"I pulled a few strings among my contacts in Antiva City, and it didn't take long to find him," Josephine said. "He was operating as a healer and a small-time apothecary under the name Estepano. He may have been in the city for years with that cover. We linked Estepano with Eluvio after noticing that Estepano was requesting some very interesting things on the black market for a hedgemage. Rumors of healing with blood magic confirmed our suspicions."

"I sent a scout to quietly contact this man," Leliana continued. "I didn't want him to think that the Inquisition was targeting him in ill will. The report I received was intriguing. Apparently Eluvio was expecting us – in fact, griped to the scout that we took our time. However, mention of  _your_  name surprised him. Shocked him, you may say. After your name came up, he politely escorted my scout from his home and asked her not to return. He must have assumed that we wouldn't listen to his request – he was gone the next day, seemingly without a trace."

Sinead held up her hand. "I don't understand. If he's run, why are you still interested in him? He isn't some kind of threat, is he?"

Cullen cleared his throat. "What I want to know is, why wouldn't  _you_  think of him as a threat?" He asked gruffly. "I don't mean to be insulting, Lady Archivist, but put aside your pleasant memories and think about this rationally. Here's a strange man who attaches himself to a child hidden away in the woods, and then goes about teaching that child one of the most detested, feared, and dangerous crafts in magic. Are you sure that man has no ulterior motives?"

"He didn't simply glom onto my mother and me," she said, her temper rising. "She knew him before I was born – he was a family friend of my father's, or so she told me."

"Ah. So your father was a mage, then?"

"No, actually. I…I think  _his_  father…I don't know, my mother wasn't exactly open about this information." She rubbed her head, feeling the edges of the darkness pushing at her. "What does it matter?"

The Inquisitor and her advisors shared a glance.

"I had Dorian reach out to some of his old friends among the Tevinter circle," Josephine said gently. "I had a suspicion that this Eluvio may be Tevinter himself, with his knowledge of blood magic. What Dorian found was…not heartening."

"Eluvio Literan is a codename, a very old codename, for the head of a Tevinter cult that specializes in the pursuit of immortality," Leliana said bluntly. "They call themselves the Crown of Razikale. And they have existed since long before the Blights began."

"Dorian implied that this cult is essentially in tatters," Josephine continued. "That the remnants are on the very fringes of society. They are seen as, let's say, like those who try to turn lead into gold in Tevinter society."

"But that doesn't mean they aren't dangerous," Cullen broke in. "They're known for committing a number of atrocities through history in the name of their Maker-cursed god. And if Eluvio, your old master, is the head of this group, there's no way we can trust him."

Sinead felt cold. She shook her head slowly. "I…this can't be right. Eluard wasn't that kind of – you have to understand, he never,  _never_  spoke of, of cults or old gods or, shite, immortality."

"We can't know why he didn't share these things with you," Leliana said. "Perhaps it was part of a past he wished to forget."

"Or perhaps it was your youth," Cullen said coolly. "Train you young, make the indoctrination kind…and then the Blight got in the way of his plans."

"No." Sinead ripped the mask from her face and tossed it aside, staring down Cullen. "You didn't know him, Cullen."

"I don't have to know him, Sinead." Cullen's voice rose slightly, and he bristled. "He taught a child blood magic. That's all I have to know."

"I told you – "

"We've already gone in circles about this before," the Inquisitor snapped. "Cullen, stand down, please. Whatever we think of this Eluvio, we trust Sinead. Yes?" Cullen paused a moment, then his face softened and he nodded, keeping his eyes on Sinead. "Good. And Sinead, can you at least agree that your childhood memories may not be the best basis to go on for a man who is, yes, a blood mage, and, yes, sometimes answers by the title of the leader an  _ancient evil Old God cult_?"

Sinead clenched her teeth, but she reluctantly nodded.

"Good. Wonderful! Okay. Can we move on?"

"Gladly," Josephine said, placing her hand on a stack of clothes. "You need to dress quickly. You'll be leaving through the kitchens. We have a cart ready to transport –"

"Waitwaitwait, why am I going anywhere? If Eluard ran when the Inquisition came to his door, then I doubt he'll make an appearance for me. None of this makes sense!"

"I still feel the same," Cullen said to the Inquisitor, troubled. "By sending her to Antiva City, all we're doing is baiting the trap and putting her life at risk. And if the worst should happen and she becomes an abomination – "

"We've discussed this," the Inquisitor soothed.

"Not with me!" Sinead snapped. "Can any of you tell me what the hell is going on?"

All were silent for a moment. Cullen tightened the grip on the pommel of his sword.

The Inquisitor approached Sinead and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Eluvio has been watching you. We don't know how – we've tried to trace a spy or a magical means with no results. And we don't know why. Perhaps he's benign; perhaps it's for a more nefarious reason. What we do know is that he's kept tabs on you for years. Perhaps since he left you during the Blight. Any man with that capability must be considered a threat."

Sinead went numb at this revelation, saying with a creaking voice, "and how do you know this?"

"Because he left a message for you." Leliana crossed her arms. "When he fled, my people searched his home. He clearly expected us to, because there was a memory crystal waiting for us, imbedded in the floor with magic. It chants a very thorough catalog of your recent history – and at the end of the history, one last message."

"'Sinead," the Inquisitor continued. "'If you want to learn your truth, you'll have to come here yourself. Only you can unlock the rest of this message. I'm waiting for you, girl.'"

Sinead let out a shuddering breath. "That bloody bastard," she muttered.

"So, my lady." The Inquisitor grinned. "Do you want to go on an adventure?"

* * *

Josephine returned to the party and Cullen left the room as Leliana and the Inquisitor helped strip Sinead of her gown and dress her in traveling gear: trousers, boots, shirt, tunic, and long enchanter's coat.

"We wanted to keep Eluvio in the dark for a bit about your movements," Leliana explained as Sinead dressed. "If his method of watching you is physical, then he won't be able to trace you for a while. The masquerade was a stroke of genius on Josie's part. And your episode was the perfect opportunity to take you away for a moment so we could put your decoy in place."

They helped her put a long leather glove on her dead hand that stretched up her arm and had a belted strap that she could use to pull her arm in close to her chest and out of the way.

"I hope you don't mind, but I snuck into your room for these." Leliana quickly braided her hair, wrapped it in her usual crown, and secured it with her mother's hairpins. "We checked them thoroughly, and can find nothing of the arcane about them."

"Thank you," Sinead said, touching the pins. "Will you make sure Dagger is taken care of? The last time I was away, the servants didn't let him out nearly enough, and he does like his walks."

Leliana smiled. "Your nug will be safe with me, I promise."

Once she was ready, the women hurried from the room. Cullen stopped them at the entrance.

"Dagna hasn't arrived yet," he said impatiently. "I told her, be ready by the third bell – "

"I was ready!" Dagna ran down the stairs, panting, holding something wrapped in a cloth. "But then  _you_  took your time meeting  _me,_  and then I realized there were a couple of things I could tweak, and –"

"That's wonderful, Dagna, but we're running on a tight schedule," the Inquisitor said quickly. "If you would, please?"

"Oh! Right. Right!" Dagna loosened the cloth, revealing a thick silverite cuff bracelet. The bracelet was hinged, and had a twisting lock. Dagna snapped it on Sinead's left arm and beamed. "You are really gonna like this, I promise."

Sinead wiggled her arm, bemused. Then her eyes widened.

"It's pulling at my mana," she said.

"Yeah, it should! It's a staff! Well, it's not a  _staff_ , it's a bracelet. But it makes your arm into a staff, or as close to a staff as an arm can get!"

" _This_  is what you were talking about all these months?" Sinead was in awe of her friend's skills. "It – it feels just like my old staff. I can't believe it!"

"Yup! Should work just the same, just, ah, make sure to toss fireballs away a little faster. I mean, they'll be shooting right out of your hand. And now your hand'll be free!"

"Dagna, you're incredible!" Sinead gave the dwarven arcanist a hug.

"Aw, nah. Well, maybe a little." Dagna returned the hug. "Just, stay safe, okay? You're not exactly the adventuring type, you know?" She poked Sinead in her dead arm.

"Right, good, let's go." Cullen and Leliana led Sinead and the Inquisitor through the kitchens.

"A few others will be joining you," Leliana said in a low voice to Sinead. "They're in the cart already. We've asked Dorian to go along, as he's essentially our expert on Tevinter magic at the moment. Perhaps he can give us some insight on this Eluvio. And we had asked Iron Bull to be the strength, but he demurred. Apparently he's not a fan of Tevinter magic. His first officer, Cremisius, took his place."

"Cole is also coming," the Inquisitor said, amused. "He figured out our little secret plan early on, and insisted on it. I couldn't fathom why."

They exited the hot, noisy kitchen into the cold night air and crossed the small dark clearing to the stables. A covered supply cart was waiting for them, the horse shaking its head and stomping impatiently.

"Off we go," the Inquisitor whispered, and she climbed into the back of the cart.

Sinead moved to join her, but Cullen stopped her.

"Wait one moment." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I do trust you, Sinead. You're one of the first mages that I could actually say that about after the – after my time at Kinloch Hold. But I've seen what blood magic can do to a person, even against their will. Promise me that you'll stay vigilant."

Sinead touched his arm and nodded. "I'll do everything in my power. And if the worst happens…well, if Cole is coming, you have nothing to worry about. He told me once that he'd kill me long before you'd have to."

Cullen raised his brows and opened his mouth to say something, but clearly thought better of it. Instead he nodded, squeezed her shoulders, and helped her climb into the cart. A strong hand helped her the rest of the way, and she tumbled into a stack of leather packs.

"Welcome aboard, lady archivist," came Krem's jovial voice from the cart's dark recesses. "You took your time."

"I'll say," Dorian grumped, unseen but radiating irritability. "I've been sitting here in these freezing winds for an hour."

"Buck up, Magister, we're off to a warmer climate. It's been a while since I've been back north. Wonder if it still smells the same."

"Like spice and unwashed masses?"

"Stop, or I'll get homesick."

Sinead felt a presence on her left. Tentatively she reached out her hand and brushed someone's chest. They took her hand and squeezed it lightly.

"Hello."

"Hello to you, Cole," Sinead said, a bit relieved. "Working in the kitchens, eh? A bit of a lie."

"It wasn't. I  _did_  help in the kitchen," Cole said indignantly. "Just not as long as you thought I did."

"All present and accounted for, driver," the Inquisitor called. "Off we go."

The driver called ho, the cart jerked forward, and the small crew was off. Sinead pulled her coat close around her and huddled close to Cole. Her adrenaline was running out, and the darkness ate at the corners of her mind.

 _So much work to find someone for_ me _,_  she thought, her heart sinking.

"Not  _for_  you," Cole whispered. "You were the messenger. Now you're the key."

"I don't know if that makes me feel any better," Sinead whispered back.

"I know. I'm sorry." He squeezed her hand again.

Sinead and leaned against him, listening to Krem and Dorian's banter and the rattle of the cart as it moved down the mountain road, and slowly she nodded off into fitful dreams where a voice in the dark kept calling her name and asking her questions she couldn't answer.


	4. Across the Sea

t took two days in the cart to reach the Waking Sea – the Inquisitor insisted on constant movement, switching horses with Inquisition soldiers posted at watch towers all along the Frostback Mountains. The original driver left them at one of these watch towers, and the small band of travelers took turns driving the cart (aside from Sinead, who feared she would not be able to hold the horse with one hand if it startled).

It was a very dull, cramped trip, and Cole could feel the boredom sitting on top of everyone's minds like cream gone sour atop the milk. Boredom always unnerved him – how could one be bored when every mind spun with constant, colliding thoughts? What made people think that too much thinking was intolerable?

Sinead's mind in particular wove great webs of wondering about her old master. But she kept silent, darkness refusing to let her speak too much on the subject, worry whittling away her wishes, her hopes. He tried to help, but it was hard to put into words why her worry was wasted. Clearly saying "he's waiting, wistful of the old times, but he knows you will find him, for it's in your blood" did not help. Instead of soothing her, she wracked her brain for the answer to this riddle that wasn't until she grew frustrated and sat in a corner of the cart mulling over a book.

The rest of the crew fought against the boredom brought on by too many thoughts. Dorian and Krem played multiple rounds of Diamondback and Wicked Grace, each attempting to win back their losses with every hand. Sinead demurred playing cards given her terrible skill, and Cole was told kindly but firmly told that he was no longer allowed to play once he began winning every hand.

"I can't help knowing that you only have two threes," he protested when Krem threw down his cards with a groan.

"That's kind of the point," Dorian said, patting Cole on the back. "Curse Varric for teaching you the rules. It was much more fun playing with you when you were losing and making up stories about the queens."

"Wait a moment, you told me that you have to try now when you see someone's thoughts." The Inquisitor looked back from the driver's seat and arched a brow at Cole.

"Not when you think loudly," he said with a shrug. "Everyone thinks loudly when they play cards."

Sinead passed the time in the front of the cart, reading from the large stash of books Dorian had loaded for the trip.

"We'll be on the water for weeks," he explained. "The last time I was on a ship, I had a journal, ink, and two books I had borrowed from a friend and 'forgot' to return. I nearly strangled myself in the rigging from the numbing monotony."

"That's more than I had on my last trip across the sea. All I had was a bunch of sullen ex Templars to keep me company," Sinead said, delighted as she sorted through the books. "And this is a veritable treasure trove! Far too much scandalous material for my library – ooh, is this a new edition of Theory of Magic?"

"This is from my personal collection." Dorian grinned. "I can't help it – every time we enter a marketplace, I end up buying out whole stalls. Bull has outright refused to help me carry it all anymore. Nothing a little lightening spell can't handle…"

It took more than a little lightening spell to carry the collection onto the ship that was waiting for them at the small port of Jader. Dorian, Sinead and the Inquisitor worked together on the books while Krem and Cole carried the rest of the supplies aboard. The captain was amicable, but bemused at the multiple boxes of books that the mages carried with them.

"I've never carried nobles with me as passengers," he said jokingly to the Inquisitor. "Is this to be expected if I start aiming for their coin rather than that of merchants, Chantry sisters and common folk?"

"I assure you, this is all Dorian Pavus," the Inquisitor said, nodding to Dorian over her boxes. "Other nobles are probably not this…well read."

The Captain scratched his neck and shrugged. "Well, your cabins are all below deck. We've freed them all for you, Inquisitor. Your Lady Montilyet was insistent that we carry no other soul aboard, so you'll be sharing space with a shipment of copper if you don't mind."

"Captain, if you can get us to Antiva City in one piece, I'll share space with live nugs," she said cheerfully.

"Naw, never gonna be a problem. Nugs make the whole ship smell like dung. Worst job I took." The Captain coughed. "Well, you came just in time. Tide's high and ready to ebb. If your crew is ready, then so is mine."

"At your leisure, Captain."

As the Inquisitor passed by the Captain and walked down the narrow stairs to the hold, he cried out "Cast off!" and the ship's crew jumped into action in the rigging. The ship began to move, slowly, away from the docs, bobbing to the side slightly as it turned into the main shipping channel.

Sinead followed behind the Inquisitor, struggling with her single box, trying to keep her footing as the boat shifted. She balanced the box awkwardly against her chest as she walked down the stairs until Cole, emerging from one of the cabins, ran up to her and took it away.

"You didn't have to carry it," he chastised.

"That's what we told her," Dorian said as he stacked his boxes against a wall. "You're welcome to try pouring water into the stone."

Cole felt Sinead's prick of annoyance.

"I don't want to be the only one not pulling my weight," she said with a frown.

"But you don't pull your weight. You carry it around with you all the time," Cole said, confused.

The Inquisitor laughed, stretching her hands above her head. "Oh, are there still idioms we haven't worked out yet?"

"I mean, I don't want to be the only one not helping," Sinead said curtly, blushing and stepping past the others into one of the cabins.

Cole followed behind, saying, "but you always help, even when you shouldn't –"

"Ah, don't bring those into her cabin," Dorian said, snapping his fingers and pointing at the boxes stacked against the wall. "If you put them with our darling Lady Lotus, I'll never see them again."

Cole hurried over to the stack and dropped his box off, then ran back to Sinead's cabin. She was pacing around the small room, first examining the bedding, then the small shelves above the bed, then opening her pack, then closing it again.

Cole hopped up on the small ledge that would serve as her bed and crossed his legs. "Walking around won't make the ship move faster."

"I know," she snapped. She stopped pacing. "Sorry. I've been – it's all happened in a bit of a rush, you see. First Eluard is alive, then he's some sort of…cult leader? And he's run off again and left me naught but a message?" She sat heavily beside him, threading her fingers under her braid. "I still feel like my head's spinning. It's been a lot to take in. But now all I can do for the next few weeks is sit and wait. It's maddening."

Cole studied her, feeling her anxiety, her nervousness, her old wounds that she thought long healed but now surfaced, bruised and raw. He had to help, had to find something to say to ease her mind, at least for a moment. He felt at the threads of her pain, tugged on them, tapped them and the long connections they made with other people who caused hurt and pain and fear and worry and wonder and ache, until he found the one for  _him_ , the elusive him who waited. He followed it across leagues and acres and clicks and steps and crow's flying distances. Far away, over fen and field and mountain, in deeps and depths, he felt the pain pulse. And he tugged.

It tugged back. And then it  _pushed_.

He snapped back to the cabin, jumping to his feet.

Sinead looked up at him, surprised. "What? What's wrong?"

"A pull, a push, a tug, a shove," he muttered, clenching and unclenching his hands. "But how did he  _know_?"

"Who?"

Cole blinked. She wouldn't like it, wouldn't like knowing that he knew that he was there and he wouldn't let him see his himness. "It's…hard to explain," he said finally.

She sighed, stood, and took his hand. "Enough of this. I'll drive myself crazy if I stay in this cabin. Come watch the shore disappear with me."

* * *

The sun set beyond the endless, dark blue horizon, and everyone was asleep but the night crew, keeping watch over the ship as it broke through the waves. Cole was alone, as he was always in the night, save for the impassive crew. He had been shooed off the rigging, his brief climb considered a danger to the state of the ship, though the sailors were suitably impressed by a landlubber's climbing skill. With no real light to read or to whittle with the small knives Blackwall had given him before he went off to the Wardens, he passed the time leaning over the edge for the ship's railing and staring off into the distance, where the sky met the sea, watching the constellations slowly rise.

Then it happened. The  _depth_. He had never sailed far over the sea, only from one island to another. He knew, from tales and minds and books that Sinead had picked out for him so that he could get a sense of the world beyond what he had seen with his eyes or felt through another's mind, that the sea was deep.

But knowing it and feeling it were two very different things. It had been deep before, of course. If he had dived from the ship, he would have had to swim hard and hold his breath for a while before he touched the bottom. But this was something else. This was a depth that  _hurt_. A pressure that pressed against his mind, planes of nothing between shoals of finned things and great monsters that ate them and the tiny specks that floated aimlessly in all directions in the current.

He could not catch his breath. He staggered away from the ship's railing, holding on to his jacket as if it were a lifeline.

"Y'all right, lad?" One of the sailor's slapped Cole on the shoulder, startling him. "Ye look a little pale. Mind, the moon's bright, and yer a bit pale to begin with." He held out a wide bottle. "A nip may do ye good."

"No. Thank you. I…don't drink," Cole said, slipping away from the sailor. "I think I just need to…lie down." He took off his hat, lowered himself onto the deck and stretched out, back flat against the polished wood.

The sailor stared at him. "All right then," he said finally, taking a good swig from the bottle and wandering off.

Cole stayed in that spot until the sun rose. He stayed even when Krem and the Inquisitor found him and tried to coax him to move.

Krem kneeled next to him, cocking his head. "What in Andraste's flames happened last night to freeze you to that spot?"

"The depth," he said simply. "It's all…do _wn there_."

"What, you mean the sea?" Krem cracked a grin. "You did know that it's a pretty deep bastard, right?"

"Yes. No. Not like this." He laid his hands flat against the deck. "There's nothing stopping the depth, nothing stopping the sinking that sucks downward, spiraling…" He petered off.

"You needn't worry about sinking," the Inquisitor said gently, leaning over him. "The ship will keep us afloat all the way to Antiva."

"There are ships down there," he said, prompted by the Inquisitor's comment. "Some still without the touch of the living things that take what comes to them from on high. Others rotting, wasting away in the water, worn down to nothing, crushed by the pressure."

The Inquisitor tsked and shook her head. "Between Dorian's sea sickness and  _this_ , our journey isn't off to a good start."

"Eh, no worries Inquisitor." Krem stood and shrugged. "Just need their sea legs, you know? Neither of them's been back and forth over the Waking Sea much."

"Ever," Cole said.

"Or ever."

Cole felt Sinead approach them, felt her waves of worry.

"Master Pavus is a mess," she said. "I know I've only crossed the sea twice, but I've never seen someone be so seasick before. And the water's fairly calm! I certainly hope we don't run into a storm."

Cole tried to close his mind from the memories of sea storms past that surfaced in the minds of the three who surrounded him, but morbid curiosity made him peak around his fingers, so to speak. The rain lashing the deck, the sails beating back and forth, the roiling, rolling waves – it all made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Anyway, I've given him a small healing drought and tried to treat the worst of his nausea with a bit of a push," Sinead continued. "But it's dangerous to push too hard against that. Don't want to damage his natural gag reflex, you know." She looked down at Cole. "Okay, what's this about?"

"He's afraid of the depth," Krem said, giving her a look.

"Oh. Well, that makes sense. It's a lot like heights, you know. All that space."

"No, heights makes far more sense," Krem said. "There's nothing between you and the ground with heights."

"But you can see to the bottom when you're up high," Sinead countered. "The sea's just all black murkiness and things that nibble at your feet." She walked off without another word.

"Wait, where are you going?" Krem called.

"Well, I'm glad this is under control." The Inquisitor smiled. "I'm off to get some breakfast."

Krem was incredulous. "You're both just going to leave him?"

"Of course not. Cole's in good hands. Come on Krem, leave it alone for now." The Inquisitor linked arms with the young warrior and took him off to the mess.

Cole was alone again, staring up at the sky in silence as he waited. It was not long until Sinead returned, as expected, with a number of books in a small sack.

"All right, I've got nothing but sky and land stories here," she said, pulling out the books. " _What the Dwarves Know_ ,  _Avvar Tales of Sky Mother and Mountain Father_ ,  _Griffin Riders of Old_  – an old favorite –  _Chariots of the Sun_. That one's one of Dorian's Tevinter books. Actually, I can't guarantee that it isn't about a horrible political plot with gory deaths and sex and the like. Which should I start with?"

"Any." Cole's voice was terse. "All."

"Very well." Sinead settled in beside him and began to read aloud.

And so she passed the day, breaking only when Krem or the Inquisitor handed her food and drink or to take a quick trip to the privy or to check on Dorian's status. From time to time she stopped and asked, "Feeling a bit better?" only to frown and dip back into the book when Cole answered a blunt "No."

The sailors watched this display with befuddlement. Cole could hear them whispering to themselves and each other about the strangeness of the pale lad and the one-armed lady. And more than one of the crew noticed that, though the beauty supped, the lad touched nary a drop of water nor a bit of nosh. It made them nervy, made them think of bad luck and bad omens and bad waters.

The sun moved across the sky as the ship moved across the depth, an achingly slow passage of time. He knew it would feel endless, not even sleep to break the long trip to Antiva. He was sullen, Sinead's stories not enough to keep the depth at bay. Finally the sun set, and the stars were once again allowed to show their light. Their familiar twinkling relaxed him a bit.

Sinead broke off her reading. Her voice was cracking a bit.

"Is this working at all?" she asked.

"No. Well. A little." He blinked. "The stars make me feel better. I can't fall up into them. It would take too much push to get me there."

Sinead sighed deeply. She closed her book and stretched out beside him, placing her hand behind her head, silent for a while. Her thoughts were hidden by druffaloes.

"It is rather beautiful out here, away from any lights," she said finally. "I forget how very  _full_  the sky is of stars."

"More than every grain of sand in the world." He said it mechanically. This line of conversation was not going to make him forget about all that was below them, he was sure of it.

"Is that so? Fascinating. Do you know, I sometimes wonder what a ship would look like, sailing among them. Sails open to catch a passing comet."

"That's…not quite right." He thought for a moment, trying to put into words what he knew of the world beyond the world, but he was not sure he could say it in a way she would understand. "It's very cold. And quiet," was as much as he could think of.

"Much like the sea under the surface." She slapped the deck. "You know, I'm glad we're safe in this ship and don't have to feel that cold. Our bit of land out in the middle of the water."

"It isn't though. It's a…a floating wish, a hope, a prayer."

"Of course it is," she said stoutly. "It's a forest! Feel the wood beneath your hands? It once fed from the earth. All these old trees strapped together to remind us that the world isn't an endless sea." She reached down and took his hand. "Why don't you tell me a story?"

"I don't know any stories. And I can't make them up like Varric."

"Of course you know stories. You know hundreds of stories! What about the story of the ship?"

"The…ship?" He hesitated. Then he reached out with his thoughts, letting them lightly touch against the ship's memory. There was a rush as the memories played over his mind, travels and captains and owners and crewmembers alive and dead who at one time walked the deck.

"It's…older than I thought," he said.

"Forgive me, I don't want to know about the ship, not really," Sinead said. "I want to know about the trees that make up the ship. What are  _their_  stories?"

Cole reached back further, coaxing the ship to give up more, to go back before it was one piece, when it was many, when it reached up to the light of the life-giving sun and wiled away the years in a restless forest. So many lifetimes ago, or not so many for the trees, but what was a single human lifespan to a tree? Let alone the blink that was the squirrels and the birds that called it home.

He relaxed, his mind cloaked in these long, quiet memories, these solid, silent thoughts of the trees. They stubbornly fought against the depth, even as the sea battered against them, bobbing with the waves, striding with the current, moving with the wind. The sea may win, but not without quite a fight.

He let go of the memories. Then he sat up, placed his hat on his head and smiled down at Sinead.

"Thank you."

Sinead grinned and tucked her hand back under her head. "You're welcome."

* * *

The days passed without much excitement – the sea was amicable, the winds strong, and the ship moved at a fast click. Cole settled into a routine; watching the sailors and captain and asking them questions until he was asked to move on, helping the cook in the mess when he felt the large man's thoughts fill with expletives, stealing one of Dorian's books and climbing up into the ropes to read when the sailors weren't watching, talking to Sinead about all manner of things that struck his or her fancy, carving little figurines from wood and leaving them about the ship for the crew to find. From time to time the depth would rear in the front of his mind, but sinking into the ship's memories kept him from losing his balance.

The others also became acclimated to the daily routines of the ship. The Inquisitor spent most of her time working on papers that she never seemed to have the time to get to at Skyhold. Krem fell in with the sailors, striking up conversations and becoming great friends with a number of them when he passed around a bottle of strong Seheron rum. Sinead was usually seen reading and writing little notes when not tending to the general wounds and ailments of the ship's crew – the captain noticed the attention she gave Dorian, and asked for a bit of help given the ship's "surgeon" was actually an old salt whose all-purpose cure was a shot of liquor and a slap on the back.

Dorian refused to leave his cabin.

"Some of us know how to keep up appearances," Dorian said through the door. "And though my general visage is still more stunning than what any shipmate is used to, I won't disappoint them by forcing them to see me when I'm not at my best."

"Come on, Dorian, it's a ship. No one is quite at their best," the Inquisitor said through his door, exasperated.

"I understand that sort of comment coming from a woman who grew up frolicking through a forest. My best and your best are two entirely different concepts."

"Well, don't expect anyone to bring you your meals," the Inquisitor grumped.

"I don't expect anyone to bring me anything. But Cole's been quite accommodating without me having to request a thing."

The Inquisitor gave Cole a look. "Really?"

"He was hungry." Cole shrugged. "I wanted to –"

"– Help. Yes. You do realize that helping those who are perfectly capable of helping themselves isn't actually all that helpful?"

"But he's afraid of throwing up on the deck like he did on his first trip across the sea," Cole said. "And he probably will. Waves make him queasy."

"You don't have to share everything with the Inquisitor!" Dorian snapped.

The Inquisitor gave up, leaving the door and thus missed the beginning of yet another retching fit from Dorian. Cole ran off to fetch Sinead and her packet of herbal remedies.

One day, about a week into their journey, Cole was propped up on a stack of rope, scraping at the beginnings of another figurine when Krem approached him.

"Mind if I join you?" He said.

Cole shrugged, not looking up from his project as Krem sat against the rope.

"What are you making?"

"A ship for the captain. His first ship that he had to leave behind when he got into a fight with the merchant who owned it. He's glad he doesn't work for merchants anymore, but he still misses the ship." He turned the figurine in his hand and worked on its tiny hull.

"You're pretty damn good at that." Krem pointed at the figurine. "How'd you get so good so fast? Usually takes years for someone to pick up a skill like that. Come to think of it, you seem pretty good at anything that requires a deft hand."

"My hands go where they're supposed to go because that's where they need to be." Cole spoke as he worked. "And the knife needs to be  _here_ , so it goes  _here_." He shaved off a few chips of wood.

Krem laughed. "You would probably be a fine tailor. My father was always disappointed that I couldn't pick up the craft easily. Didn't have the hands for it." He wiggled his fingers. "See? Too stubby."

Cole finally looked at Krem. "You didn't want to learn. You were fine when it was something you wanted to know – like Flavia's bracelets."

Krem blinked and opened his mouth. "How did you know about – wait, of course. Sorry, you just…never really did that to  _me_  before." He coughed. "You mean the wish bracelets?"

"I don't understand how a bracelet can grant a wish." Cole cocked his head. "Do you use magic to charm it?"

"Oh, nah, it's an old kid's game. Which ah." Krem rubbed his neck. "I suppose you don't really have a frame of reference for that. Look, I'll show you." He drew the knife attached to the inside of his boot and sawed off a length of rope. Then he pulled apart the strands until he had four lengths of twine, and he tied them together at the top. "You make these alternating knots, see," he said, demonstrating to Cole. "When you're done with the bracelet, you tie it to your friend's wrist and make a wish for them. When the bracelet falls off, the wish comes true."

"So…the magic isn't real."

"Nope. But I guess Tevinters always have a secret hope that little charms like this will work. You know, latent magic and all that." Cole leaned over Krem, watching his hands fumble with the twine. Krem glanced back and grinned. "So, uh. Feeling better from that first day?"

"Yes. The trees help."

"The…trees? Uh. Okay." He chuckled. "You know, the Boss likes to say you've changed a lot from when he first met you. 'Still a squirrelly kid, but the shit he says makes some sort of sense, now. And his eyes aren't as glassy.'"

"Yes. The Iron Bull likes me a lot more now that I'm more human. He isn't afraid of me becoming a demon anymore."

"Well, no offense or anything, but I never really talked to you much before now. And, ah. I don't really see it, you know?" He shrugged. "I mean, you don't eat. You don't sleep. I'm guessing you don't shit?"

"No."

"Right. Those are kind of…essentials to being human."

Cole slipped off the rope pile and sat next to Krem. "But I am more human. Things feel… _more_  now. It's hard to explain." He twirled his knife in his fingers. "Like the depth. Before, the depth wouldn't have scared me. It would have just  _been_. Now there's something in me, something that makes me think of how the depth can…swallow me."

"So you get to be afraid of death now. Yeah, I guess that's pretty human." Krem laughed and bumped Cole with his shoulder. "That's kind of a shit deal. You think you'll ever get more than that?"

"Yes." Cole frowned and was silent for a moment. "It's…every day I slip a little further away from where I began. I can feel it, flowing away from me. It's…hard." He worked on his figurine, his cuts growing deeper, less defined. "When I became what I am, when I came over, I made myself forget, forget the Fade, and even forget what I was. And when I remembered that I was a spirit, it all became hard to see. Hard to know. Then I made my choice. And I remembered. Everything over there is…solutions you seek for serenity seem simple. Joy is easy. Happiness is your purpose." He hacked at the figurine. "And now, I can never go back."

Krem stopped working on the bracelet a moment and looked over at Cole. "Ah. Now I get it. That's something I can really get, yeah." He cleared his throat and continued tying knots. "But you know, you can't hang on to your old home forever."

"I know." Cole hit the wood so hard with his knife that it stuck and he was forced to wiggle it from the nock. "Everyone is waiting for me to become what I should be. Become the person. Watching, wondering when I'll let go. They don't think I'm enough how I am. They don't care who I am later as long as I'm more me than before." He stilled his hands and smiled a small smile. "Except Sinead. She never wanted me to be anything more or less than what I wanted to be. She doesn't wait. She just is. She lets me  _be_."

A small silence passed between them.

"So…you really do love her, eh?"

Cole lowered his work into his lap. "I know you like her."

"Shit yeah, I like her! What's not to like? She's gorgeous, she's smart, she's nice, she's helpful, she's pushy – sometimes she's even funny. But she's clearly not into bruisers, so I'll admire her from afar. You love her though, right?"

"Yes." Cole looked at Krem and raised his brows. "You…didn't think I did. She loves me, yes, but  _I_  don't love. Why?"

"Well." Krem shifted uncomfortably. "Well. I mean, you barely act like a couple, do you? You're affectionate, sure, but, ah. I've never seen you, say, hang on each other. Or steal a kiss. Andraste's tits, kid, I've never even seen you in her cabin for longer than a few minutes. I mean, you don't really put on a show."

"Oh." Cole sank a little into the rope. "That."

"What, you guys aren't…you know, you don't, ah, get off with, or at all or…I mean, I've heard of people who were like that, and Maker knows I'm not one to judge, but, you know –"

"Heat." Cole shook his head. "I don't have heat. I don't have want. It's not…" he sighed. "I do love her. I  _do_. But I don't want. She knows that. She thinks it's easier for her if I don't want. But…" his voice grew small. "But that's not what  _she_  wants. Not really. And someday she'll find someone who can want her back."

"Oooh. This is starting to get heavy." Krem finished up the bracelet and eyed Cole. "What will you do if she finds someone else?"

"…I'll be happy for her. Because she's happy."

Krem let out a loud laugh. "Oh, no. No, that's no good at all. Nope. Never gonna happen. All right, kid, I have a wish for you." He took Cole's hand and pulled it toward him, wrapping the bracelet around Cole's wrist. Four strands of twine hung limply from both sides of the bracelet. "Four knots for a wish." With each step, Krem tied two of the strands together. "One to call the Fade. Two to make it real. Three to call the spirits. Four to make a deal. A little spit," Krem licked his thumb and rubbed it along the bracelet. "A little blood." He nicked the tip of his thumb with his knife and spread his blood into the spit. "And say the wish to set it." He covered Cole's wrist with his hand and held it up. "Listen here. My wish is that you get over the past. Move on. Make a future for yourself as who you are now, not who or what you used to be." He dropped Cole's hand, slapped Cole's shoulder and grinned. "At least get a little, for Maker's sake. All right, I'm off to the mess. Starving my arse off. You wanna…oh, right. Ah. Okay!"

Krem stood, stretched, gave Cole a small salute and sauntered off.

Cole examined the bracelet, pulling it around his wrist. It was magic that wasn't magic but still had a power in it. He couldn't quite pin down why that was. He shook his head and went back to carving the figurine, setting aside the idea for later.


	5. Montilyet Estate

The sun was low on the horizon when the ship docked in Antiva City. Already the lanterns of the city were being lit, their flickering mirroring the orange light of the evening sky. Music drifted over the sea from every city ward, delicate strings blending with brassy horns and light woodwinds into a pleasant din.

Sinead leaned over the ship's railing, taking in the sight of the sparkling, tiered port city. Cole leaned next to her, his solemn gaze fixed on the busy movement of dock workers and sailors and prostitutes along the pier.

"What a wonder," she breathed. "Rougher than Val Royeaux, but more friendly, I think. Like an old dancing shoe."

"Can a city be friendly?"

"In a sense. The people in the city can be friendly, which means you can personify the city itself as friendly."

"Then this city isn't friendly," he said matter of factly. "It's…confident. And very exciting."

"Exciting! Well, that's good, isn't it?"

He gave her a look. "Val Royeaux was exciting."

She frowned and brushed her hand over her dead arm. "Good point."

"Cole! Sinead! We're ready!" The Inquisitor called from the gangplank, waving them over. Krem and Dorian were already with her, the latter huddled under his cloak.

"Well, time to find out for ourselves what this city's about," Sinead said with a grin. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and jogged over to the Inquisitor, Cole close on her heels.

"Right, keep your hoods up, everyone," the Inquisitor said. "We're supposed to be deep in the Emerald Graves right now, and I want that story to stick for as long as possible. Not that I expect anyone on the docks to give one whit about our being in Antiva City, but just in case."

The Inquisitor said one last goodbye to the ship's captain, and her crew disembarked, walking quickly with their gear in tow to a simple but elegant carriage waiting at the end of the pier. They loaded up the carriage, loaded in, and were off, black curtains firmly closed to any sight of the city.

"I admit, I was looking forward to having a view," Sinead said, disappointed.

"There will be time to take in the sights, I'm sure," the Inquisitor said, amused. "The Montilyets are well known as good hosts."

"Good of Lady Josephine to let us stay at her home," Krem said. "It'll be nicer than any of the inns I've stayed at in this city, I bet. Antivans are big on bathing, which is great, but they're also big on perfume, and everyone has their signature scent. When it all mixes together, it can be overwhelming. Even the cheapest place smells like a whore house in the summer."

"How charming," Dorian intoned. He was perfectly groomed, his hair slicked and his chin shaved, but he was still sallow and a bit sunken-cheeked from the sea voyage. "Let's hope the Montilyet 'signature scent' is a little better than summer whore. Knowing Josephine, I'm going to assume rosewater in sensible square glass bottles."

Cole cocked his head to Dorian, a look of surprise on his face. "How did you know?"

"You read minds. I read character."

The carriage rattled on, through streets both noisy and quiet, until it finally rolled to a stop and the driver opened the door, displaying a modest but well-groomed estate tucked behind a tall stucco wall. The manor was built of white brick, and carved ebony doors were set within a deep recess at the entrance. The doors were open, and a number of servants had come from within to tackle the task of carrying in the crew's gear.

The Inquisitor exited the carriage, prompting the others to follow her into the manor. An older woman elegantly dressed in a simple yellow gown stood in the foyer with a wide smile on her face. Her hair was neatly piled in curls atop her head. A two young men and a young woman, all equally well-dressed, stood to her right.

"Welcome, Inquisitor," the woman said, stepping forward outstretched and taking the Inquisitor's hands in her own. "I am Lady Montilyet. Forgive my husband and my eldest son – they had business in Seleny, else they would also be here to greet you."

"No need for apologies, my Lady," the Inquisitor said cheerfully. "I'm thankful to you for offering up your home to a bunch of weary travelers. It is a lovely estate."

Lady Montilyet beamed. "Please, make yourselves at home, all of you, during your stay. So long as you are within Casa de Montilyet, you are family."

"And we do what we can for family," the young woman said coquettishly. Her eyes were firmly locked upon Krem, who had just noticed the attention and was starting to look a bit flustered. "I would be glad to take any of you on a tour of our humble estate. I know every inch of this manor – even the most secret places."

Krem let out a cough and stared at the ceiling as the young woman's brothers hid smiles behind their fists.

"Yvette!" the Lady Montilyet hissed. She recovered and smiled again. "Constantin will see you to your rooms. A bath is waiting for each of you. Please, freshen up and we will have dinner together. And Inquisitor, a messenger came for you today, long before your arrival. He's waiting for you in the parlor."

"Then I suppose my bath will have to wait." A servant nodded at the Inquisitor and led her off down a corridor.

"I could show the others up to their rooms, Mama. We needn't bother Constantin," Yvette said sweetly.

"No, Constantin is set for the task," Lady Montilyet replied, voice terse.

A very tall, very straight man stepped out from behind the Montilyets and led the Inquisitor's crew up the stairs and to individual rooms.

"See you at dinner!" Yvette called as they climbed the stairs.

"Looks like you have an admirer," Dorian said with a smile, patting Krem on the back.

"Andraste's tits I hope not," Krem grumbled. "Last thing I need is the lady of the house on my back."

"I believe Lady Montilyet was far more annoyed with Yvette than you. But if Yvette's taken a liking to you, let me warn you - I've met her like before, and that type is awfully persistent."

"Lucky me."

Sinead was trying desperately to stifle her giggles, but couldn't help letting out a few snorts.

"Oh, go on, Lady Archivist," Krem said as Constantin opened a door and indicated that the room was his. "Laugh it up. Thank the Maker the boss isn't here…"

Constantin opened the door across from Krem's, nodded to Sinead, and left with Dorian and Cole in tow.

The room was a large rectangle, furnished with old, ebony wood in a floral motif. A steaming copper tub sat in the middle of the tiled floor. A young serving woman rushed to her side, pulling her into the room and shutting the door.

"My name is Mercedes," she said excitedly as she attacked Sinead's belt, slipping it from her waist, then unbuckled her arm from its sling and started untying her tunic. "I heard all about you from the Lady Joesphine's letters. You're the Lady Archivist, no?"

"Oh, ah," Sinead stuttered, unsure of what to do as Mercedes undressed her. "I can manage this alone, thank you."

Mercedes laughed and pulled the tunic expertly over Sinead's head, and followed suit with her shirt. Sinead yelped and covered her not so ample chest with her arm.

"Lady Josephine spoke of your modesty. She said it's one of your more charming traits. But with that arm help will make things go faster." Mercedes swiftly unlaced and removed Sinead's boots, and before Sinead had time to jump back she pulled down her pants.

Sinead felt herself going red as Mercedes removed the brace on her dead arm, and, finally, took out her mother's hairpins. Her hair tumbled from its braid in black waves.

"Th-thank you," she said, scurrying to the bath. "You are…very helpful."

"Oh, these need a good wash," Mercedes said, eyeing the shirt and tunic. "A ship's not exactly a place one can stay fresh, I suppose. Though they're better than I would have thought."

Sinead's blush deepened. "I…had a few outfits to switch between." She stepped gingerly into the tub, hissing at the heat.

"Well, then, we'll have to wash those, too," Mercedes said firmly. "There's plenty to wear in the wardrobe. You'll want something Antivan anyway – travel clothes have no place in the Montilyet home."

The door opened suddenly. Sinead yelped again and splashed into the tub, sloshing water over the sides.

"Sinead, the Inquisitor is asking for you," Cole said, popping his head around the door.

"Excuse you, but this is the lady's private room," Mercedes huffed, pushing at the door.

"Yes, I know, that's why I opened  _this_  door," Cole replied, pushing back.

"Cole! I'm bathing!" Sinead snapped, huddling so that most of her body was underwater.

"I know that too," Cole said impatiently. "So did the Inquisitor. That's why she sent me – she thought you wouldn't want her opening the door during your bath."

"Why would she send a young man to fetch the lady?" Mercedes stopped pushing at the door and gave him a bemused look.

Sinead's blush became a new color, something in the realms of red that had not yet been recorded.

"She's not…she doesn't know that we don't…she –"

"She knows that we're a couple." Again, Cole spoke matter of factly.

"Oh. Oh!" Mercedes gave Cole a once-over, then shot Sinead an incredulous look. "This is your  _lover_? The one you fought fifty demons for?"

"There were only three demons," Cole said. He glanced at Sinead, and, noticing her discomfort, added, "But they were very  _strong_  demons."

"Cole, I need to take a bath! Please!" Sinead said desperately. "Thank you for the message! Tell the Inquisitor I'll visit her quarters as soon as I can!"

"Okay." Cole started to close the door, then opened it again. "It's strange, though. I was sure you didn't have a grandfather."

"A  _what_?"

* * *

_Inquisitor,_

_I'm sending this through the Circle Tower in Antiva so that it reaches you post haste. My ravens are swift, but not as swift as the Circle's means of communication. Don't worry – my eyes and ears are in the Antiva tower. None but they know this message, and I'm sure one of my own will be at your side as soon as you arrive in Antiva City._

_It's been ten days since you left, and we have had a most notable visitor – an elven mage going by the name Titus who claims to be the Lady Archivist's grandfather._

_He arrived this morning on horseback, a horse of a breed the Avvar use. Two elves accompanied him, both carrying bows and swords. I assume they were some sort of guard, though they spoke not a word when questioned. None of them have the vallaslin, so it is unlikely that any of them are connected to the Dalish, but it is clear that they are nomadic based on their gear. Titus himself is of much lighter coloring than Sinead, though he seems to be of an age that could be grandfatherly. His hair is generously streaked with grey, and his face is lined, though in that soft way of many elves._

_When Titus approached the gate, he gave his purpose as to see the Inquisitor as soon as possible, or barring that to see the woman by the name of Sinead who was also called La Belle de Lotus Noir, for she was his granddaughter and she was in grave danger._

_Obviously the guard sent for Cullen, and when Cullen learned of who this man wished to see he sent for Josephine and me. The three of us met with Titus in Cullen's office. The man was polite to a fault. When he was informed that the Lady Sinead was not currently in Skyhold but was on an excursion in the Emerald Graves with the Inquisitor, he expressed great dismay. His exact words were:_

_"My granddaughter was taken from me when she was but an infant by a cold and cruel manipulator. For decades he's hidden her from me, and it is only now that she's gained notoriety that I've been able to track her down. You must understand, this is a madman, a creature who used my bloodline for his own despicable experiments for years. I know not what he wants with the poor child, but I know it is not in her benefit. I came to protect her, for my lost son's sake. And I will not fail again. The Dread Wolf take that old fiend to his grave."_

_As you can imagine, his words caused quite a stir. Josephine offered him a place to stay in Skyhold to await you're and Sinead's return, but Titus refused. "If she be in the Emerald Graves, then to the Emerald Graves I shall go. With luck I shall meet them upon the path to the ancient forests."_

_He took his leave then with his men. I had one of my best trackers follow him. And, surprisingly, when the man and his aides came to a crossroads, they headed north rather than south. I am still receiving reports of his travels. I have no answers for how he could know Sinead's location, but I would bet good silver that he is, at this moment, traveling to Antiva City._

_We are of three minds, Inquisitor. Cullen wishes you to return immediately with the Lady Archivist. Josephine feels you should wait for this man to arrive in Antiva City and hear him out. I feel that your mission should continue unhindered – study Eluvio's message and find him if you can. We will learn of this Titus's legitimacy when the time is right._

_It is up to you to decide your next move. We await your reply._

_Yours,_

_Leliana_

The Inquisitor, finished with reading the report aloud, rolled it up and handed it to the green-cloaked messenger. Sinead stared at the Inquisitor, her mouth slightly open, her brows furrowed.

"It all feels a little too perfect." Dorian lay across a settee in the center of the parlor, stirring a cup of tea. His color was much healthier, "Due to terra firma, my very best and closest friend," he said when asked. "I mean, we get an urgent message from this former master of Sinead's, only to find out now that some grandfather figure is looking for her as well? I don't wonder if your Eluard knew that Titus was on your tail, Lady Lotus."

"Seems awfully fishy to me." Krem leaned forward on his chair and propped his elbows on his knees. "I mean, what elf do you know who ever made claims on a human as kin? Aside from the family you choose, that is. Blood's almost as important to them as it is to Magisters."

"It is rare," the Inquisitor said carefully. "But not unheard of."

"Marcus." Sinead looked at her hand, spreading her fingers. "My father. He was an elf. Light complexion. In fact, I think my mother said he was towheaded. Raised in an alienage by my grandparents. Sinead – she's the one I'm named for – was killed by an accident in a raid. She pushed Marcus out of the way of a blow and got clocked in the temple. And Titus." She clenched her hand into her fist. "Titus was an apostate. He served as a healer in the alienage. My mother said Eluard was an old friend of Titus – that when he died and left my father with no one in the world, Eluard took it upon himself to watch over my father as his own."

She shook her head and looked up at the Inquisitor. "It doesn't make sense. My mother said Titus was dead. That everyone was dead. I know she wasn't lying." She looked at Cole, who was leaning, arms crossed, against the wall. "Was she lying?"

"She didn't think so," he said calmly. "She thought everything she told you was the truth."

"Was it?"

Cole hesitated. "I…don't know. The one who would is unwilling, withdrawing when I seek him out."

Dorian sat up. "What do you mean 'withdrawing'? Are you implying that you've tried to read Eluard from afar and he  _won't let you_?"

"Yes," Cole said reluctantly. "He…pushes me aside."

"Which means he knows when you're poking around his head," Dorian said triumphantly. "Andraste's red knickers, do you know what that means, Inquisitor? The man must be a savant. We have yet to meet a single person who can simply stop Cole from rummaging around in his mind."

"Aside from Solas you mean," the Inquisitor pointed out.

"Yes, well, Solas was a special case with all his prancing about in the Fade. This is a human mage with this kind of power. Makes me wonder how strong the man is. Fascinating!"

Sinead wasn't paying attention to Dorian's glee. She was looking at Cole, trying very hard not to be hurt and failing.

"I didn't tell you because it wouldn't have helped," he pleaded, tightening his arms around his chest. "All you would do is worry why he was hiding."

"Am I not allowed to choose what I worry about?" she snapped. Then she waved her hand at him. "No, never mind. I'll never convince you."

"No, you don't," he agreed, earning a tight-lipped look from her.

"A half-elf, eh?" Krem said in a clear effort to distract her. "That's a bit of a surprise."

"Well, it's not like it comes up in conversation often," Sinead said irritably, still annoyed and hurt. "The elf never comes through for halves, does it? Or three fourths or whatever I am – apparently my mother was swimming with elfiness as well. Doesn't really matter, I'm human to anyone who sees me and  _especially_  human to elves."

"So we have a few possibilities," the Inquisitor said, calling everyone back to attention. "Eluard may have been playing a very long con on Sinead for inexplicable reasons, part of that con being abandoning her in a Circle for close to a decade. Which isn't outside the realm of crazy plot twists in the mind of a madman. And his ability to block Cole is troubling. What's on his mind that he wants no one to see?

Then we have Titus, who could be Sinead's kin or could not be, could be a benevolent protector or could not be. We have quite a pretty pickle, here."

"That's not all."

Everyone looked at the messenger, who until that moment had been silent. He looked startled at the sudden attention.

"Um. Ah. That is." He cleared his throat and recovered. "Eluard's apartments, Inquisitor. They're being watched. By those other than us."

"Well, wonderful. By who?"

"We're not quite sure Inquisitor." The messenger pulled another scroll from his belt and handed it to her. "We kept tabs as soon as we noticed 'em, of course. Pretty sure they aren't aware that we know they're there. We speculate that they're part of a larger entity, but are unsure what their purpose may be. There's about eight in the city currently, and they watch the apartments in shifts."

"That isn't a good sign," Krem muttered.

"No, it's not." The Inquisitor mulled over this information for a moment. "This puts a crimp in our plans. We can't very well go waltzing into the apartments and tip off some possibly nefarious group. I don't care if they're Eluard's, Titus's, or some griffon emperor's, we're not going near those apartments until we know this group cannot spot us."

"Oh. Well. We've already figured that part out, Inquisitor." The messenger grinned. "I just hope you don't mind getting your boots dirty."


	6. Eluard's Message

The sewers of Antiva City were a marvel - brick and stone corridors running under every building in the city, with clay piping that reached into every privy of every home. Water from an aqueduct cleared the corridors regularly, and the whole thing was maintained by a special guild that was nearly as important (though not as deadly) as the Crows. True, other cities had sewers (and there was rumor that whatever they had in Par Vollen was a mechanical wonder), but Antiva City's system was better than anything else in Thedas - better maintained, better built, more sanitary.

"That's all very well and good, Lady Archivist," Dorian said after Sinead was finished excitedly explaining the origins of the sewers. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm currently ankle deep in shit."

"Actually, there should be far more water than waste." Sinead leaned over and brought her torch close to the stone floor. "The aqueduct is very regular in its schedule."

"So shit water, then. Much better, yes," Dorian quipped.

"It's amazing how much of my job requires traveling through dank tunnel systems," the Inquisitor said jovially. "They really should have put that in the paperwork. Though usually they smell a little better."

"At least there's no spiders." Krem lifted his torch toward the ceiling. "Rats, sure, but what's a few rats?"

"Hundred thousand," Cole corrected. "A few hundred thousand. They like it here. It's quiet, and there's always food."

"Ah. Good to know. I guess."

"The apartment's just around this bend." The scout waved his torch to the left and kept walking. "You wouldn't believe how hard it was to punch through the sewer system. Had a couple of our mages on it. It was spelled up pretty good. Like a layer of magic atop the stone. Makes you wonder what goes on down here that you don't want people stumbling into."

"This city is owned by the Crows. I don't think you have to wonder that much," the Inquisitor said.

"Fair enough, my lady." The scout stopped and lifted his torch. He let out three piercing whistles of varying lengths.

There was a moment of silence, save for the sloshing as everyone gathered around the scout and looked up. Then a grinding sound, and a square of light appeared in the ceiling.

"Oy, Serell, you took your time," a woman's voice said.

"Inquisitor's ship came in, Jone. Had to wait for her, didn't I? She and her crew are here."

"You're joking." A head appeared in the square, shadowed by the light. "Maker's teeth! Uh, hello, my lady. Good to see you. Um, let me get the ladder."

"In your own time, Jone," the Inquisitor said cheerfully.

Jone's head disappeared and a rope ladder tumbled down from the square. One by one the others extinguished their torches and climbed up into the apartments. Sinead was the last - she waited as the others climbed, the light growing ever dimmer around her, until she was the only one in the sewer and her torch was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. Then she took a breath, dropped her torch in the water, hooked her arm and legs through the rungs of the ladder and held on tight. Blind but for the light above, she felt herself being lifted through the air, yanked up by intervals, the square of light growing until her head cleared the top. Krem and the scout Serell lifted her by her arms the rest of the way and set her on her feet.

They were in a stone cellar lined with empty shelves. There was no indication of what those shelves may have once held. The scout Jone and the Inquisitor were kneeling over something in the middle of the floor that gave off a bright blue glow.

"It doesn't activate unless you touch it," Jone explained. "It repeats the same message three times, then goes silent again."

"Hm. I'm aware of the message. I don't really need to hear it again. Sinead? Can you come here, please?"

Sinead joined the Inquisitor, carefully kneeling next to her. The glowing thing was a memory crystal shaped like a cube that had been embedded in the stone. Thin tendrils branched out from it, as if it was rooted in place.

"This is the memory crystal? Fascinating." Sinead brightened. "Oh, Dagna is going to be so jealous. She showed me something like this once, but it was much more fragile."

"The message is for you," the Inquisitor said patiently. "Why don't you try touching it and see what happens?"

"I suppose. Though if I remember Eluard, he wouldn't make anything so simple." Sinead placed her hand on the cube. It flickered, and a small, shadowy image of Eluard appeared in the cube. He began to speak – rattling off events from Sinead's life. Her flight from the darkspawn. Her classes at the Gallows. Her Harrowing. The attack of the Qunari. The annulment. The death of Rein. Her time as a healer. Her ascension into her current position. Sinead grew pale as he spoke. "Sorry," she said shakily. "It's…been a long time since I've seen him. Or heard his voice. It's…eerie." Her voice lowered. "I almost didn't believe it. How do you know so much about me, Eluard?"

Finally he finished by saying, "Sinead, if you want to learn your truth, you'll have to come here yourself. Only you can unlock the rest of this message. I'm waiting for you, girl."

And then the message repeated.

"Well, that's not it," the Inquisitor said, standing. "Maybe he left a clue in the message?"

"Perhaps your blood will unlock it?" Dorian walked over, looking at the memory crystal thoughtfully. "He's a blood mage, isn't he? Seems the most logical answer."

"It's worth a try," Sinead said with a shrug, though she was doubtful that 'touching the memory crystal with blood' was nearly complex enough for her old master. She unsheathed her knife, pulled down her shirt and tunic at her shoulder, and made a shallow cut along her collarbone. Then she daubed at the wound with her thumb and pressed a bloody print onto the cube.

The message began again, with no change.

Sinead healed her cut and stood. "Have you looked around the rest of the apartments?" she asked Jone.

"Of course, but there's nothing out of the ordinary up there. Certainly nothing arcane. Just, you know. A man's living space."

"We'd better have a look ourselves," the Inquisitor said. "It seems your old master is a riddler."

"Ah, I hate it when they try to make a treasure hunt clever," Krem said. "So much easier for everyone if you just lock your secrets in a thick box with a big lock."

They climbed the stairs to the first floor, an open room with an unlit fireplace on the east side. Aside from a small sink and counter, shelves lined the walls. Unlike the shelves in the cellar, these were filled with books. An overstuffed cloth chair sat in front of the fireplace, and a large table framed by two wooden chairs took up much of the space on the west side. The table was covered in papers, books, quills, ink wells, maps, and strangely, games – a deck of cards dealt out into two hands laying face down, a set of dice next to a horn cup, a chess board with its pieces set up as if in the middle of a game, and a version of the word game that Eluard had given Sinead as a child. There were tiles spelling words vertically and horizontally across the board.

Sinead walked around the table as the others took in the space. She brushed a hand over the papers, and stopped in front of the word game.

"Like Jone said, anything we moved, we put right back in place," Serell said. "We thought there's be an answer in the papers on the table, but most of them are quick notes. Probably written to remind him of things."

"Well, this is going to be fun," Dorian said brightly. "There's not even the beginning of an indication of where to begin looking for clues. Shall we start sorting through the books?"

"No." Cole approached the table, his hands hovering over the various games. "These feel…important. Carefully constructed contests…"

"Hiding his message in plain sight," Sinead finished. She flipped the two hands of cards and spread them across the table. Each hand had three cards – a king, a queen and a knave.

"Now this riddle actually looks like fun," Dorian said, leaning over the table. "King, queen and knave. Meanwhile we have another game with kings, queens and knaves right here." He tapped the black king, queen and a white pawn on the chess board. "Only one pawn moved from its place on the board, as well as the black king and queen. Hm."

"Perhaps it's as simple as king, queen, and knave?" the Inquisitor said. "He's essentially repeated it twice."

"But he's also set up the word game," Sinead muttered, reading over the board. "And where the game is started – this isn't the usual way."

"It seems awfully particular to be set up at random," she continued. "Elves and gods and eluvians all on the same board, for instance?"

Krem waved a hand at the board. "Well, there's eight words. Why not just call out combinations to the memory crystal until you find the right one?"

"Oh, I don't think that would be a good idea," the Inquisitor said skeptically. "I'm fairly sure the number of possible combinations is...well, I don't know an exact amount, but it's quite high."

"It's only eight. It can't be that many, can it?" Krem replied.

"Forty thousand, three hundred and twenty." Cole rattled off the number as he picked up chess pieces, looked at the square beneath them, and set them back down.

"What? No, that's not possible," Krem said incredulously.

Cole looked at Krem, brows furrowed. "No, it's right. All the possible combinations for eight things – forty thousand, three hundred –"

"Look, how do you even know that?"

"Because it's the right number?" Cole sounded confused, as if it was obvious that the number would simply appear in his mind.

"Don't worry about it, Krem, he does that sort of thing all the time," Dorian said with a wave of his hand as he pondered the chess board and the word game. "I do feel it has to do something with numbers, though. Perhaps adding all the points together of the words? Maybe we have to do some sort of math trick."

"I think you were more on point with the chess board," the Inquisitor said. "Look here – you have the black king moved over to G8. All the way on the other side of the board, the black queen is checking the white king at G1. And the only pawn moved on the whole board – white, to A3."

"Oh, my, Inquisitor, correctly called squares and everything. No wonder you thoroughly thrashed Cullen at the game," Dorian teased.

"Yes, well." The Inquisitor reddened slightly at the tips of her ears.

Sinead was barely listening to this banter. She was counting points on the word board. "Did you say G8?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes, that's where the queen is."

"Gods," Sinead said triumphantly. "One of the words is 'gods'. Starts with G, adds up to eight points with the triple letter score under the O."

"Small problem with that theory," Dorian said, tapping the letter G. "If it's going by first letter, the only other G word on the board is 'gracious'. And if I'm adding up the points correctly, there's no way that can work – the numbers on a chess board only go up to eight."

"But the king's up at G1, right?" Krem pointed at the chess board. "Maybe he didn't add the word score up for that one. Just, you know. G's worth one point, word starts with G."

"Gracious Gods?" Dorian muttered.

"No." Sinead slid the A away out of the word Blade. "Triple letter score, which makes this worth three. Pawn on A3. Gods Are Gracious."

"Oh, of course!" The Inquisitor slapped her forehead. "It really is staring us in the face, isn't it?"

"I don't get it," Krem said.

"Neither do I," Dorian concurred. "What's so obvious about Gods Are Gracious? Is Eluard or Eluvio or whatever he calls himself particularly godly?"

"'The gods are gracious' is a rough translation of Sinead's name from elven," the Inquisitor explained.

"Very rough," Sinead continued. Her eyes brightened as she spoke. "Probably a bastardization of the phrase The Gods See Thee and Grant Thee Grace and Compassion, given that the elven word for 'god' is –"

"No need for a linguistic lesson," Dorian said hastily. "Let's see if the damned phrase works on the damned crystal, shall we?"

They all piled down the stairs, followed by a rather bemused scout Serell, and the Inquisitor and Sinead kneeled beside the memory crystal again.

"Don't forget the blood," Dorian said. "Blood mages absolutely love their blood."

Again Sinead made a shallow cut at her shoulder and pressed her bloodied thumb against the memory crystal. "The gods are gracious," she said.

Immediately the crystal changed color, from blue to a dark indigo. Eluard's fuzzy form appeared within the cube.

 _"Hello my girl,"_  he said, the voice echoing in the empty cellar. Against her best attempts at stoicism, Sinead smiled. It had been a long time since anyone called her that.  _"I knew you'd crack my little puzzle. Sorry to take so many precautions to leave you a simple message. I wouldn't do so if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary._

_"You're angry at me, I suppose. Not without reason. I promised I'd never let you rot in the Circle, and instead I allowed you to be taken in by the worst Tower in the entire blasted system. I am so sorry, my girl. I'm sure it means little now, but I would never have left you in the Gallows if I didn't honestly believe you were safer there than with me. Unfortunately, my actions during the Blight caught the attention of an old enemy, whom I could not shake until you had joined the Inquisition. And once you were safe within the walls of that massive keep, I felt it would be far more of a risk to your safety to contact you than it would for you to continue to think I abandoned you, or that I was dead._

_"But the circumstances have changed. That enemy now has my scent again, as well as yours. Partly because of your own growing notoriety. La Belle de Lotus Noir?"_ Eluard snorted. _"You must hate that little moniker."_

Sinead shook her head. "You have no idea how much, old man."

 _"But mostly,"_ Eluard continued, _"Because you sought me out. I should have known you would look for me someday. I wish you hadn't, but here we are._

 _"Sinead, I'll be frank – you are currently being hunted by a creature who wants to use you in ways that are horrific. Please, you must believe me. You are in terrible, mortal danger. I will not go into detail, lest that creature manage to find this message before you. I pray to every entity that ever called itself a god that it won't. But I will say this:_ you need to RUN. _Run fast. Run hard. Run far. Then seek me out, and we will try to figure out how to keep you safe together._

_"Tell that Inquisitor of yours, for I know she's going to hear this message, either directly or through you: travel with Sinead if you wish, my lady, but if you do, you're painting a very large target on my former apprentice's back. This isn't an all-threatening problem, a Blight or a Corypheus come to change the world for the worse. This is, unfortunately, a threat that has only, ever, affected Sinead's family. And she, being the last of her line and all other branches of her line, is in severe danger._

_"You may think you can beat it. You cannot. You must trust me on this – do NOT confront my enemy. Even with that hand of yours, Inquisitor, this is something you cannot defeat. The only option is to flee. Please, my girl, heed my words. In northern Rivain, find Seer Hana. She's well-known to other seers – ask for her, and they will lead you to her. Tell her who you are and give her this memory crystal. She will set you on the right path._

_Run, my girl. Don't stop until we meet again."_

The memory crystal flickered back to blue. The roots in the stone withered away, and the cube lifted from the floor with a snick. The Inquisitor picked up the cube and turned it in her hand.

"Well," she said amicably. "Now we have a problem."

* * *

Back at the Montilyet estate, the Inquisitor's crew had a resounding discussion in the parlor.

"I don't trust this former master," Dorian said. "He sends Sinead on a scavenger hunt on a shaky premise of her life being in danger, yet refuses to say exactly what this threat is. Why would he be so coy?"

"And what of the grandfather?" The Inquisitor paced the floor, arms crossed. "He is, I assume, the threat that Eluard is alluding to. Yet he seemed to be no threat when he came to Skyhold, and he brought his own warning of Eluard's intentions."

"Listen, we came to find this guy, and we should," Krem replied. "Just because he's vague doesn't mean he's wrong. And anyway, if we find him, whatever his intentions, we'll at least find answers."

"But if he's a powerful threat, like the grandfather says, we'd be putting Sinead in unnecessary danger," Dorian said, raising his voice. "It's foolish. Like a mouse walking up to a sleeping cat just to tweak its nose."

"Well, we can't just wait around for the grandfather," Krem retorted. "Eluard's pretty heavy with calling him a threat as well."

"So what do we do, send Sinead off to some remote island and keep her away from either man?"

"Excuse me, I'm right here," Sinead said, disgruntled. "Do I not have a say in my next move?"

"As far as I'm concerned, no, you don't," the Inquisitor said.

Sinead was taken aback. "What? If course I do," she said, her own voice gaining volume. "Forgive me, Inquisitor, but I'll not be pushed in one direction or the other without my own consent."

"Yes, you will," the Inquisitor said firmly. "I give you quite a bit of autonomy, Lady Archivist, but you must understand, even if you refuse to acknowledge it yourself – you are a rather powerful mage. Do you think I'm completely unaware of what you can do with blood? The scrying? The healing? And lady Morrigan had a number of words to say, not all in your favor, about what you did to her door wards for her eluvian's quarters. You downplay your skills heavily, barely even using magic day to day, yet when you do, especially when you use blood, you can accomplish things that are, quite frankly, terrifying to the average mage. And, as I'm not the average mage –" she held up her marked hand "– I think I have a little understanding about this.

"And now you're being tracked by two men, each of whom says the other is a threat to your safety. One of whom is a known blood mage. What will happen if one of them try to take you? To  _use_  you? That's a threat I'm loath to unleash upon a world that's already troubled."

Sinead sat heavily upon the parlor's settee. Anger and shock wrestled within her. "Are you saying I've been your prisoner the entire time I've been in your service?"

The Inquisitor's demeanor softened. "Not my prisoner. You are a willing ally, and deserving of the accolades you've received. Nonetheless, I am not blind to the potential danger you represent. This is my  _job_ , Sinead. I protect people from danger."

Sinead felt her chest tighten. The blackness rimmed her eyesight.

"Stop," Cole said sharply. "You aren't helping."

"I know," the Inquisitor said gently. "But she has a right to know, Cole."

Cole gave the Inquisitor a disgruntled look and sat next to Sinead. "Is knowing better?"

Sinead shook her head. "I don't know," she said faintly, struggling to fight off the panic.

"Well, this is a fine turn of events," Dorian said with sardonic disgust. "Let's just tell the woman we're ostensibly trying to save that she's like unto a pet nug, shall we? Or, no, that is a bit low – like a fine racing horse, perhaps?"

"Dorian," the Inquisitor said warningly.

"Oh, no, I understand, Inquisitor. Threats and obligations and the whole world on your shoulders and all that."

"Listen, forget all this shite," Krem said. "Sinead's still under threat. And I hate to say it Inquisitor, but Eluard's right. If Sinead sticks around Skyhold or you travel with her, she's basically a pink rabbit."

"Pink rabbit?" Cole said, confused. "Because she's lovely?"

"No, because…" Krem laughed a little. "Because she's easy to see in the forest. Easy prey."

"Well, at the very least we need to get Sinead out of the city," the Inquisitor said.

"So, are we to completely ignore this grandfather who, as we speak, is probably on his way to Antiva City? That seems unwise," Dorian said.

"No." The Inquisitor paused a moment, tapping her fist against her chin. "If I'm a target, then I'm perfect as bait. Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to stay here in Antiva City and wait for this grandfather to appear. If he tries to contact me, I can interview him myself and try to figure him out. The scouts and I can also investigate this shady group that's been watching Eluard's apartments."

"And where am I going? Shipping me off to a Tower somewhere?" Sinead's voice was bitter.

The Inquisitor gave her a look. "You, Krem, Dorian and Cole are going to find this Seer Hana. Eluard has indicated that he's not with her, which may or may not be true, but we have no reason not to believe him at this point. Perhaps this Seer will have some answers.

Whoever has answers first will immediately contact the other. Take a crow with you when you go. Whatever you discover, immediately contact me. We will go from there."

"So you trust me out in the world then," Sinead said. "With a heavy escort."

"Lady Archivist…" the Inquisitor rubbed her forehead. Her voice was tired. "I'm not going to argue with you over this. You are supposedly in danger, you're in my charge, you're going as far from the danger as I can send you. Understood?"

Sinead pursed her lips. "Yes." She looked down.

"Good. Then the four of you should go to bed. I want you out of the city early tomorrow morning."

Krem cleared his throat. "So our path is set, then. Great. Then I'm gonna go catch some shuteye. Haven't slept in a proper bed for weeks, and I'm looking forward to it. Inquisitor." He gave the Inquisitor a nod and left the room.

"I'm off to bed as well," Dorian said, not even attempting to hide his irritation. "I suppose I don't mind too much being volunteered as an escort for such a  _dangerous_  mage." He swept from the room, shooting Sinead a raised brow as he left.

There was a small moment of silence.

"So you believe Commander Cullen," Sinead said finally, sullen. "That I can't be trusted with blood magic. Because it's  _blood_  magic. Which is somehow inherently evil. Never mind the good it can do, it's bloody so it must be evil."

"Come now, I'm not a fool nor a supporter of mage suppression," the Inquisitor snapped. "By the Dread Wolf, I'm a Dalish mage! But you are most certainly being foolish if you think blood magic is all butterflies and candy dreams. Do you not remember what happened to the poor mages of the Grey Wardens?"

"The Grey Wardens chose to hurt people with their magic," Cole said quietly. "Sinead has never done that."

"The Wardens were tricked into a desperate position," the Inquisitor countered. "What happens if Sinead is similarly tricked? Or, worse, what if someone uses blood magic on her? Takes her mind?"

Sinead shuddered then gave the Inquisitor a dark look. "I'm not at any more risk of such a thing happening than you are."

"What of demons, then? You're certainly at more risk of possession."

"And that's why you need someone following me at all times," Sinead shot back. "Particularly Cole, right? Must have someone at my side, for at any moment I could shift into a monster."

"That's not why I'm here," Cole said, hurt.

Sinead let her anger dissipate a bit. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply…I'm sorry."

The Inquisitor let out a deep sigh. "Are my words making you rethink your place in the Inquisition?"

"Of course not," Sinead snapped. "I still want to help, and the Inquisition is the best place I know to be. I just, I'm not…so keen on…being thought of as something to keep under control," she finished awkwardly.

The Inquisitor gave her a small smile and shook her head. "Don't be silly. You aren't something I'm trying to control. You're an important asset, a young woman with a bright future whom I'm trying to  _protect_. Why do you think we're in Antiva City? Why do you think I'd send you off on some mad hunt for a seer with some of my very best people? You think I wouldn't do for you what I'd do for anyone else in Skyhold?"

Sinead remained silent, mulling this over. The Inquisitor reached over and squeezed her shoulder.

"Go to bed, Lady Archivist. Tomorrow will probably be a long day." Her tone changed, becoming more jovial. "Particularly since to my understanding you've never traveled on horseback before. I don't envy the sore arse you'll have tomorrow night."

The Inquisitor left the room, leaving Cole and Sinead alone.

Sinead felt low. The darkness had not yet abated, though the panic had been broken up by her anger. She picked at the buckles of her arm sling.

"I didn't think she saw me as a threat," she said, voice low. "Cullen, yes, but he's always seen me as such. Even if I was one of the good mages, I was still a mage. I assume that means Leliana does, too. She had me watched, had me…Maker, does  _Josephine_  see me as dangerous? Did Solas? Is that why he destroyed the books? Does Varric, or Dagna, or –" She stopped, clenching the wrist of her dead hand tightly.

Cole gently took her hand between his and squeezed. "Cullen thinks the blood magic is a danger, not you. Never you. He fears what could become of you. Leliana thinks you're a hidden advantage. Josephine thinks you're a nice woman who must become savvier with how you present yourself. Solas thought you could become a good student someday, even though you're human. Varric thinks you need more friends. Dagna  _is_  a friend." He leaned down until he was in her sight. "People fear  _for_  you, they don't fear you."

The darkness pulled back a bit. She gave him a wan smile. "You always know what to say."

"Not always. The cook once slapped me when I told her one of the blacksmiths wanted to visit the privy with her again and as often as possible, but didn't know how to ask."

Sinead laughed and gave him a quick kiss on the lips which left him blinking. "Promise me you'll never change."

"No," he replied, which made her laugh even harder.


	7. Good Days and Bad Days

Cole liked horses. Of course, he liked most animals – their thoughts and wants were simple, understandable, easy to help. But horses had the added and interesting trait of being able to read a person nearly as well as he could, which he found fascinating. One glance, one sniff, and a horse knew your whole self, then immediately used that knowledge to its advantage.

For instance, the horse currently eyeing Sinead was well aware of how nervous she was to be near him. And he was not about to be a humble or willing mount for her if she did not want to ride him.

"It's very tall," she said, hesitantly patting his head, which he begrudgingly allowed.

"He," Cole corrected. He felt the ripples of smug indifference coming from the horse, and began to feel worried. He took a number of sugar cubes from his pocket, then took Sinead's hand, pressed it flat, and placed the cubes on her palm. "Let him eat them off your hand, and he'll be your friend."

"Did you take the sugar off the breakfast table?" She grinned. "You weren't even at breakfast."

"No, I took it from the pantry last night."

"Oh, Cole. You must stop stealing from kitchens." She held the sugar out to the horse, who sniffed her hand, then delicately took a few cubes between its teeth. "That tickles a bit."

"I'll stop stealing when people who need food can get it whenever they want," he replied as he rubbed the horse's nose.

Dorian, already on his horse, yawned. "This is a time that really doesn't exist for civilized people," he grumbled. "Unless they're coming at it from the other side, of course."

"All right, saddle bags are all packed." Krem sidled over from his horse and slapped Cole's shoulder. "Time to mount. We want to get out of the city before the sun rises."

"Yes, time to mount." Sinead said with false enthusiasm. Cole felt her anxiety rise. "Are you sure I'll be fine with one arm?"

"Absolutely. You're supposed to use one hand with the reins anyway. Shouldn't be a handicap for you at all, aside from the balance, maybe, and that'll just take some time." Krem lowered himself on one knee and put his hands together. "Come on, I'll help you up."

"All right," she said reluctantly.

"Left foot in the stirrup. Yes, that's it," Krem coached as she grabbed the horn, locked her foot into the stirrup and stepped on Krem's offered hand. She pulled herself up, leveraged by Krem, and quickly swung her leg over, landing in the saddle with a thump. "Okay, now take the reins, but don't pull on them yet."

"Goodness, it's rather high up here," she said with a nervous laugh as she took the reins in her hand. "Very high." The horse began to stamp its feet and weave its head. "Oh, I don't know if I like this," she blurted. Her panic was increasing, though had not yet become worthy of an attack. Cole's worry grew.

"Hey, now, none of that," Krem said, taking the horse by the bridle and giving it a look. The horse quieted, but Cole could feel its resentment for having to carry such a novice. It was not going to be an easy horse to ride. Krem was none the wiser, however. He patted the horse's neck and said, "That's better. Don't worry, my lady, a good horse will follow the train. Just aim him toward the back end of everyone else, and you'll be fine. Load up, Cole, let's go!"

 _She will not be fine_. It was a true and unpleasant realization. This horse was going to bolt or walk off as soon as they were clear of the city. He listened to the minds of the other horses, but none were willing to be the trainee horse for the day. In fact, he had the sense that they were all eyeing  _him,_  daring him to suggest that Sinead ride a different horse.

"I see," he said. "None of you are very kind." He knocked Sinead's foot from the stirrups and pulled up behind her. He felt her instant relief, which he shared, and she let him take the reins from her hand. The horse was displeased, but recognized that he had been beat. For now.

"Oh, come on, you can't ride the poor thing like that all day," Krem protested. "He'll wear out before its half over."

"We can switch to the other horse at lunch," Cole said. "She won't mind."

"The two of them together don't weigh close to Bull, and he manages on horses. You never moan about the 'poor thing' then," Dorian quipped.

"Because the boss'd get sulky about his weight," Krem muttered. He tied the extra horse to his own, and mounted. "Fine, okay, let's go."

"Lead on, pack leader," Dorian teased, poking fun at the Inquisitor's designation of Krem as such (Sinead, she said, was too much of a novice at traveling, Cole was too flighty, and Dorian was not to touch the purse, please, no, not even a silver, he had his own money to buy wine with).

Krem rolled his eyes, said, "ho!" and they were off.

They rode out of the Montilyet's stable yard, a sluggish, tired stable hand opening the gate for them, and out into the quiet city. A mist rose from the cobblestones, and the clatter of horseshoes echoed over the buildings. The streetlamps still burned, but they were muffled and muted by the haze.

"It's rather eerie at this time of day," Sinead whispered, looking up at the fog-hidden sky. "Like the whole world is asleep."

"It's not though," Cole whispered back. He pointed at a darkened window. "The man in that room is awake, worried about how he's going to pay his gambling debt tomorrow. He thinks he'll have to sell his mother's broaches." He swung his arm down the street. "Around the corner, a woman is getting ready for the day. She's the housekeeper, and must wake the other servants soon. This cup of tea is the only time she has to herself until she crawls into bed tonight."

Sinead smiled at the walls of the buildings they passed. "So many stories we'll never know."

"I know them. But I forget them. It's hard to hold them all forever."

They traveled through the streets, through the great city gates, and out into an open and lush landscape that smelled of green and sea. Krem lit a lantern and attached it to the pommel of his saddle. The dull roar of the sea was audible to their right, though in the early morning blackness, with neither moon visible, all one could perceive with sight was the glow of Krem's lantern.

The group traveled at a slow pace as the sun began to rise, silent but for the clip-clopping of the horses, all but Cole still drowsy.

Sinead began to lean into Cole in a doze, lulled by the movement of the horse. Aside from her hairpins occasionally bumping against his nose, he rather liked the sensation. She had a particular scent, like salt and sweet, poppies and copper, that he had grown to  _want_  over the months since he had met her on the tower and told her he loved her. It was like a tug on his chest, though he was fairly sure that wasn't where the want started. It was the closest thing he felt to the much more urgent need he felt in other couples, or trios, or quads, or groups his mind sometimes picked up on. It was a small want, a little human desire that he held on to as proof that someday, maybe, he'd want more.

Maybe.

Anyway, she did smell nice, which was enough for now.

The day grew brighter and the sun burned off the mist, revealing the winding road that followed the sea cliffs. Off to the left were rolling hills and farms punctuated by small collections of houses that passed for villages. To the right, the sunlight reflected the sea's waves, and the white billows of ship sails moved slowly in the distance.

Sinead was fully awake now, taking in the sights. He could feel her happiness move through her like warm liquid. "It's so much more greenery than I've seen in such a long time. The mountains are beautiful in their way, but I do miss green." She perked up in the saddle. "Rivain is supposed to be simply covered in woods. You think we'll have to pass through some on our way north?"

"We will," Krem said. "I've been through Rivain a few times. It's one big, damned forest."

"Good," she said giddily.

"I suppose so. Except for the bandits. Easier to hide in the trees."

"They can't really hide with Cole around," Dorian said, looking up from the book he had started reading when the light was bright enough. "He'll hear one of them cursing the twigs poking into his back long before we're under them."

"I can't keep my mind open for everything all the time," Cole retorted. "It's tiring."

"But you can keep your mind open enough to tell me I need to write to my mother more," Dorian drawled. "Which, thank you for that, right before this fun romp."

"I can't help it if you  _want_  someone to tell you that," Cole said with a shrug. "You put it in my head."

"Touché."

The day passed lazily by, with everyone in high spirits. Cole supposed it was because they were no longer trapped on the ship, and though they were moving much slower than before toward their new goal, actually being able to tell that the scenery was passing by made it feel like they were doing something more than waiting. They stopped for a quick lunch of bread, fruit and cheese, and continued on. From time to time they passed travelers – merchants with heavy carts, cheerful groups walking with packs from one village to another, mule herders on their way to or from some market, and two chantry sisters who gave them pinched glares as they passed.

"Probably for us," Dorian said to Krem. "Vints in Antiva. Oh, how the sisters' feathers are ruffled."

As the day wore on, Sinead and Dorian had a casual discussion about magic theory that slowly grew into a heated argument.

"You must be joking," he said with a scoff. "To pull back right before the spell is fully realized is to deny it that extra oomph! Instead of a burst of flame, you have a sad flicker. It's all about follow through. Is that really what the Southern Circle teaches?"

"That wasn't the Circle, that was Eluard," Sinead retorted. "And you don't  _pull back_ , you  _hold back_  some of your power and add it at the last moment when you're sure that the spell will go right. It's the difference between a flame and an inferno. It's basic safety!"

"Perhaps you need that when you're playing with blood, which is understandable, I suppose, perhaps, if you're the nervous sort. But any mage worth his salt would push rather than pull, and with confidence! It's hesitation that causes the most accidents, not forthrightness."

"Tell that to the idiot in my third year at the Circle who froze himself solid with one strong push."

"One anecdote does not make a rule."

Their irritation rolled over Cole unpleasantly, but he had learned that these kinds of fights were seen as enjoyable to people. And he could feel it, underneath their exasperation – this was a mock battle, a push back and forth for them to stretch their knowledge and maybe learn something new, though neither would admit it. They fought because they liked each other's company. It was strange, but he was used to the strangeness now.

The day rolled to evening, and Krem led them off the road a bit to make camp. Cole helped Sinead down, letting her hold on to him as she hobbled around.

"The Inquisitor was right," she groaned. "My whole backside is a tenderized piece of meat."

"It's because you aren't riding with the horse's movement," Cole said. "You bounce down when he bounces up."

Krem looked over from where he was untacking the horses. "Can't you just heal yourself?"

"I could, but then my muscles will never develop, and I'll feel this way every day, always." She whimpered and slowly lowered herself to the ground. "All I can do is numb it a bit."

"Right, well, I suppose I can give you a break from making camp tonight," Krem said with a grin. "Cole, can you set up the bedrolls? Dorian, get the fire ready." He pulled a bow from its place on his saddle and strung it. "I'll see if I can't get us something fresh for dinner."

Soon the camp was set and neat, mostly due to Cole's work, though he did not mind. Dorian knew how to start a fire, but was not as keen about keeping it fed. And Sinead could barely move her legs, which she was very embarrassed about. He thought about asking her if she wanted him to massage her legs, but he felt oddly bashful about asking. He was sure it was something she'd blush about – she did turn a very bright shade of red when he walked in on her bath the day before, which he did not realize was due to her quickly hidden nudity until he was halfway down the hall with her message to the Inquisitor. He considered reassuring her that he'd seen plenty of naked people before, many who did not even know he was there, but checked himself. Sometimes people did not like knowing things like that.

So maybe asking her if she wanted her legs rubbed would not turn out well. Then again, it would help, and it would be better than feeling the pangs of pain running up and down her body. But before he had a chance to ask, Krem returned with two rabbits and Sinead said, "at least let me dress those so I don't feel like a lump."

Krem was reluctant to give Sinead the rabbits, but his skepticism was quelled as, even one-handed, she deftly skinned, dressed and quartered the rabbits.

"You're better at that than I would have thought for a Circle mage," he said.

"You forget that I spent the first half of my life in a forest," she said with a raised brow. "I would be an embarrassment to my mother if I didn't know how to dress a blessed  _rabbit_."

As Krem staked the rabbit quarters over the fire, Dorian unhooked a lute from his pack and tuned it.

"I still can't believe you packed that thing," Krem said.

"Music, ser, is the expression of the soul," Dorian replied as he twiddled with the strings, plucking a light, nonsense tune. "To leave it behind is to deny oneself their very life force."

"Uh huh. So what's your soul pining for tonight? A ballad? A love song, I bet. You seem like the love song type," Krem joked.

Dorian gave him a mock glare, fiddled with the strings a bit more then started strumming a definite tune. Krem let out a loud laugh.

"The Poetical Song! Really?"

"What's the Poetical Song?" Sinead asked as she rubbed her legs ineffectually.

"It's more the melody that's important," Krem explained. "So long as you know the rules of the poem, you can put any words in there." He gave Dorian a wry look. "However, there's one particular set of lyrics that any red-blooded Tevinter knows by heart."

"And what do you think I am, an Ander?" Dorian snorted. "I think not."

"Prove it, pretty boy."

Dorian grinned and started to sing in a clear Baritone.

"Listen my friends to the tale of my love

A man who has faced the greatest of foes

His eyes are bright as the stars up above

And hair as black as the feathers of crows."

"That rhyme is a little forced," Sinead whispered. Cole hushed her, intent on the tune.

"When riding against the great horned men

He sits tall as the Hundred Pillars' rows.

Oh never has his like been seen before

From Volca Sea to Amaranthine's shores.

I followed my love 'cross the Silent Plains

Down the highway to Valarian Fields

'Cross Nocen Sea to where the horned man reigns,

And fog and shadows the warriors wield

He fought with fury, was the horned man's bane

With a final blow the battle was sealed.

Oh never has his like been seen before

From Volca Sea to Amaranthine's shores."

Dorian lifted his brows and began to play more raucously.

"A man such as this, I willingly slave

O'r his body, like as from marble hewn

'Til his shuddering makes the bedposts wave

And pillows and sheets cross the room are strewn."

Krem sang along for the last verse, adding a few lewd hand movements.

"Honor he deserved and honor I gave

For every head taken I gave him two…

Never has my touch been bested before

From Volca Sea to Amaranthine's shores."

Dorian finished with a flourish as Krem laughed.

"That was lovely," Sinead said brightly. She was a bit pink.

"It was a nice song," Cole said, pleased at everyone's happiness. "Is the singer also a soldier?"

"Uh, well, it's a Tevinter song, so I think they're both mages," Krem said, amused.

"Oh. But the singer is also fighting the Qunari?"

"I…no, I think the singer's just admiring the lover's, uh. Prowess?"

"Then where did he get the heads?"

Suddenly a cascade of images rolled through his mind from the three of them. And then he realized that he was not the only one who did not see the full truth of the song's meaning – Sinead only had the last two, most obvious verses, and her images were much more  _academic_  than Krem's or Dorian's.

"Ooooh," he said with a nod. "The lover has sex with the Qunari."

"Well, that's what prostitutes do, yes," Dorian said with a chuckle.

" _What_?" Sinead sputtered. Her pink grew bright red as Krem and Dorian lost themselves in a much longer fit of laughter. "I didn't know it was that sort of –" She cleared her throat. "Of course, a, a classic form of pub song."

"Yes! Classic!" Krem was wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh, Maker."

Cole decided to not ask Sinead if she wanted a massage.

The three eaters ate, and everyone talked as the sky darkened and Luna rose above the horizon. Finally, Dorian, Krem and Sinead settled into their bed rolls, leaving Cole on watch. He laid back and watched the stars, listening to their breathing slow as they fell asleep. He let out a sigh of contentment. Though there was a threat in the distance, either one they were running from or one they were heading towards, now, in this moment, everything was well. It had been a good day.

In the weeks to come, he often thought back to that day and clung to it like a raft in a stormy sea where the deep was waiting to swallow him whole.

* * *

Two days later, the weather turned. Dark clouds rolled in from the sea and broke as they reached the shore. Cascades of rain fell upon the travelers, soaking through their cloaks and slicking the hair of the horses to a deep shine. The road became a muddy stream.

Perhaps the lighter mood would have continued if the rain only lasted a day. Unfortunately, the weather remained fitful for the rest of the week, sometimes pouring, sometimes sprinkling, sometimes giving them a moment of relief under a gloomy shelf of clouds, but never allowing the sun to break through and warm them.

They came upon a number of inns on their journey, particularly when they passed through Treviso, a pleasant costal city, where they found shelter and dry beds for the night. But a few of their nights passed under tarp tents on muddy grass, and no matter how hard they tried they could not get dry and sleep was fitful for the three who slept.

Everyone's mood was foul, including Cole's due to the foulness of the others' moods that he carried with him. He shut out most of it, but it still wrapped around him like his wet cloak. And nothing he said helped the others lift out of their hollow. They appreciated that he tried, especially Sinead, who tried right back, asking him about the other bedraggled travelers they passed, and humoring him by listening to his short replies. But the mood remained glum.

Also, he was decidedly uncomfortable in wet clothes. It was another one of those things that would not have bothered him  _before_ , but here he was, his legs chafing against the saddle, his skin pruned and flaking, his leather togs sticking to his skin. It was annoying. And it annoyed him that he could be annoyed.

Finally, early Tuesday morning, as Cole huddled beneath his open tent, staring out at the mists, the sky cleared, the sun shined, and Krem woke the others with a "Maker's blue balls fucking finally!"

Everyone was cheered by the sun. Sinead, optimistic, went so far as to change into her only set of clothes that remained untouched by the rain as they were buried deep in her pack. "It's for good luck," she explained.

"I don't think that's how it works," Cole said, doubtful.

She laughed at that and replied, "Then it's because I want to wear a dry shirt, which is like good luck to me."

The mood continued to brighten as the day grew warm and their damp things steamed in the sunlight. Even as the day became muggy and difficult to breathe in, it was still better than wet. Anything was better than wet.

The landscape had changed considerably since they left Antiva. Trees became more frequent, until they were regularly passing copses, and the hills became more sloping.

"Pretty sure we're coming close to Rivain's border," Krem said brightly. "The last sign we passed said its only six miles away. If we push the horses a bit, we can be on the road to Ayesleigh by nightfall."

"I admit, I'm excited to see Rivain," Sinead said, loosing a bubbling, frothing bit of happy nerves onto Cole's perception. "I've read so many wonderful things about the Seers. Can you imagine, a place where mages are seen as leaders by their people?"

Dorian and Krem shared a look.

"Well – what I mean is – well, never mind.  _I'm_  excited to visit such a place."

"I'm sure it helps that Rivain's Seers aren't seen as demons made flesh, like mages some countries," Dorian said. "No offense, Cole."

"Why would I be offended by the truth?"

"You'd be surprised how many people are," Dorian replied wryly.

Sinead continued speaking about the Seers, their abilities to talk to the spirits, their place as advisors, but the discussion faded into the background for Cole. Something was picking at his head. Curious, he opened his mind.

He was flooded by feelings – the worst kinds of feelings. Fear, hate, a sneering pride. And pain. A terrible pain.

He reined in the horse, startling Sinead and killing the discussion abruptly. "There are people up ahead," he said quietly. "Hidden a few yards in the trees. I think they're thieves."

"Damn it," Krem muttered, turning his horse. "You think they're watching the road?"

"No. They're smugly satisfied, sorting the spoils of their last looting." He felt frantic as the pain pushed at him. "And preening over their pray who's suffers, slowly – we have to help her," he finished, kneeing his horse into a walk.

"Wait a minute." Krem grabbed Cole's horse's bridle as he passed. "How many are there?"

"Six. There were eight, but she cut down two. She's proud of that, no matter what happens next."

"Six? Well, that's no problem." Krem grinned. "You think we can take six, guys?"

Cole felt Sinead stiffen. Her head filled with visions of blood, blood pouring out of a Qunari's mouth, blood on her hands. He understood. He did. But it was frustrating – how could he make that part of her, that panicked, darkened part of her that shut out every other voice, see?

"Please," he whispered to her. "This is not the same. They are not him."

She said nothing, but she gave him a barely perceptible nod.

Krem and Dorian did not notice this exchange.

"Two mages, a warrior and a knifey fellow? I think we'll be just fine," Dorian said. "It's been a while since I smoked out bandits." He unleashed his staff from his back. "Let's do a little good."

They dismounted, pulling the horses into the woods so they weren't visible from the road and tying them up, then moved through the trees toward where Cole led them. They heard the thieves before they saw them, the thieves' voices and laughter rattling through the copse. Cole slowed his walk to a creep and the others followed suit as the thieves became visible through the greenery. They were camped in a small clearing, passing around a bottle and ripping into a number of bags and pulling out the goods.

"Andraste's silky ass, the oxmen don't pack light," one of them crowed, pulling a number of fine linens from a pack. "Where'd you pick this up, giantess? Need a bit of frill for those fine tits of yours?"

A Qunari woman was propped against a twisted oak at the edge of the clearing. She was beaten and bruised, and one of her legs twisted at an angle that Cole knew was wrong. She held her side, and even breathing was painful for her. Her pain made him ache.

But it was not the Qunari's pain that made him angry. It was the thieves' thoughts. Two were filled with fear, terrible fear, fear of beatings and hunger and worse in the night. Two were filled with loathing. It sank into his mind, their awful disgust, even as they sorted through the loot. They were here for the money, but one certainly was ready to bolt as soon as he had enough coin to make it worth the run.

The last two, one of them being the man who spoke so crassly to the injured woman, had minds like sucking pits. It was like touching slime-covered rocks when he felt them. He shuddered. He drew his knives.

"Wait," Sinead hissed desperately. "It's wrong to surprise them like this. We need to give them a chance."

The other three gave her incredulous looks.

"A chance at what? At killing us all?" Dorian hissed in return. "They already have a victim that they're openly mocking. I think we have reason enough for a surprise attack."

"One man openly mocked her, out of six," she replied. Her desperation grew, smacking against Cole and blending with the feelings of the thieves. She pulled her pins from her hair, shoved them into her belt and shook out her braid. "Surely not all of them deserve to die."

In horror, and too late, Cole realized what she planned to do. "Wait!" he whispered, grabbing at her arm, but she was too swift. She stumbled into the clearing.

"What in the Void is she doing?" Dorian squeaked, moving to go after her.

"Not yet," Krem said through clenched teeth, blocking Dorian's path. "The fight'll be a bloody mess if we go after her now."

The thieves were certainly surprised by Sinead's sudden appearance in the clearing. They looked up from the loot, stunned. She widened her eyes, looking around the clearing as if she was startled to find herself here.

"Hello, I – I seem to be lost," she said in a small, frightened voice. "My nug ran off and I went after him and now I can't find him or the road."

"Since when can she act like that?" Dorian whispered.

Cole barely heard this comment. His breath was shallow. The loathing ones and the fearful ones did not like this new development – but not because they saw Sinead as a threat or a burden or even a target. All of their minds went toward the sucking pits, wondering what they would do with this young woman.

The black-minded ones' thoughts turned to Sinead, each of them vile in different ways. One was nothing but blood and hurt and pain and want and need and crushing, he liked the crushing feel as the life faded from their eyes. The other did not want pain, he liked the power, the want, the strange girl's fear, wanted the feel of her hair in his fingers.

One of them approached Sinead, the power-hungry one, with an easy smile. "It's all right, ducky. We can lead you back to the road, can't we?" He reached out and tugged on a lock of her hair.

Cole tightened the grip on his dagger. The thoughts from the power-hungry man were brigher, faster, grasping, thinking of her face, that hair, wondering at the feel of his hands running over her.

Cole shook his head. "Shut up," he whispered. "Shut up."

"Cole?" Krem hissed worriedly.

"Wh-what's wrong with the Qunari woman?" Sinead asked nervously, looking past the black-minded ones at the others. All but one looked away. That one, a fearful one, had wide eyes. He shook his head at Sinead.  _Run_ , he mouthed at her.  _Run_.

"Just one of our crew," the bloody one said. "Got herself hurt. We're mercs, see."

The Qunari woman shifted and tried to speak, but all that came out was a wheeze. The bloody one loved that sound, the wheezing, the choking, the grasping at life hopelessly.

"Don't worry about her, ducky," the power-hungry one said, leaning over Sinead. "Let's go find the road."

Make her trust, make her gentle, and quiet, and calm, and then the hands and the struggle and the want and the taking and the –

"Shut UP," Cole snarled. His knife left his hand before he finished his words, the blade driving into the eye of the sucking pit, startling Sinead. She froze. Her thoughts became a jumble of old memories of death.

As the power-hungry one fell back and his mind became blessedly blank, Cole's second knife landed in the throat of the bloody one. He died with a surprised gurgle.

"Shit, we're under attack!" One of the loathing ones drew his blade and jumped back into the trees. The others followed suit, and disappearing into the copse.

"Thanks for cutting down those bastards, but damn it did you have to throw both of your knives?" Krem said as he drew his sword. "Sinead, get out of there! Did any of you see an archer?"

"There was one," Dorian replied. There was a flash of blue as he placed a barrier on all of them. Then a thwock as an arrow bounced off Sinead's barrier. "Ah, there he is."

The arrow broke Sinead's catatonia. She gasped and leapt back into the trees. Krem grabbed her by the arm.

"What in the Maker loving void were you thinking?" he cried.

There was a snap of electricity and Krem yelped and pulled his hand back. "That not every thief deserves to die," she shot back.

"Nice thought, but now we've got hidden baddies and the one guy who's good at stealth can't get his damned weapons unless he wants an arrow in his chest."

"I don't need them." Cole deftly pulled Sinead's knife from its sheath. The sylvan wood sang at him. "It wants this anyway." He ran off into the woods, following the thoughts of the thieves.

"Wait!" Sinead ran after him.

"This is not usually how these things go for me," Krem said as he and Dorian followed after them both.

Dorian batted away the foliage with his staff. "Well, I don't know about you, but I think this is the last time I fight with a bloody pacifist. They're entirely too mad."

* * *

"Please wait, Cole," Sinead pleaded, huffing as she ran.

He ignored her. One of the fearful thieves had run, and was going to run as fast and as far as possible away from everything he saw with the black-minded ones. That was good. He was safe. The other fearful one was egged on by one of the loathing ones – a brother? Too afraid to leave. Not so good. If he fought, he would have to die. The loathing ones were ready to fight for their loot. One had already caught their number – three men, only one with any strength, and a scared woman? Easy pickings. More loot maybe.

Not as bad as the sucking pits, but still bad. Still a threat. The thieves had made their choice, and he was ready to end them.

His barrier was almost out – he could feel it fizzing against his skin. And the archer knew it. He heard the archer think this before the arrow was loosed. Cole dropped. The arrow sank into the tree above him. Another arrow was flying at him, but before it made contact it burst into flame and became a shower of ash.

"Fucking mage," the thief spat from his cover up in a tree, sending an arrow at Sinead. She quickly covered herself and Cole with a barrier, deflecting the arrow.

The other loathing one jumped out of the trees, swinging his sword down at Cole. Cole rolled out of the way and hopped up, knife ready. He dodged another swing as an arrow bounced off his barrier. Then he feinted to the left and as the swordsman turned, dodged to the right, away from his attacker and toward the archer.

Krem was waiting for the swordsman, stunning the thief with a blow from his shield. The swordsman recovered, and they clashed, metal ringing against metal.

Cole jumped into the tree where the archer was perched, ascending through the branches with agile speed. The archer loosed arrow after arrow at him, each bouncing off the barrier, weakening it. It fizzled out, and the archer loosed one final arrow before a massive electric shock knocked him from the tree. He tumbled to the ground.

"You're welcome!" Dorian called.

The arrow smacked into Cole's left shoulder. He cried out and his grip slipped off the limbs he was holding. Another barrier covered him as he crashed through the branches.

"Oh, spoke too soon," Dorian muttered.

Sinead was there when he landed. The barrier kept him safe from the fall, but it jarred the arrow. He groaned. "Stupid stupid stupid," she was chanting. She broke off the end of the arrow and jerked what was left out of his back, making him gasp in pain. Then she healed him, mending the wound until it was nothing but a dull ache. "This is all so  _stupid_." She yanked her knife from his hand and sliced into her dead arm. Her eyes glowed red.

Ice shot up around the man Krem was fighting, until he was encased in a binding, frigid cage so tightly that his limbs could not move. Krem moved back, surprised. Meanwhile, Sinead stalked over to the grievously injured archer lying dazed on the ground. She healed him, then encased him in ice as well.

"Well, that's a neat trick," Dorian said brightly.

"Will you please come out?" she called into the woods. "Or do I have to drag you out?"

The final, fearful thief shakily rose from the bushes where he was hiding. It was the one who had mouthed  _Run_  to her.

"Please, mum, I don't want to die," he said, trembling. "Please, I don't want to die."

"No one is going to kill you," Sinead said. "Or at least none of us are."

The thief sagged. "And you'll not kill my brother?" He pointed at the swordsman.

"No," she said, her voice tired. She turned to the swordman. "Are you really willing to try to kill us over whatever is in that poor woman's pack?"

"Well, not now I'm not," the swordman retorted, wiggling his fingers. "I can tell when I've been beat. Is Ollie dead?"

"The archer? No."

"He should be." Cole stared at the archer. "They both should be. They'll hurt people again. They'll keep doing it until someone stops them."

"Damn it, I don't hurt people," the swordsman snapped. "I joined this little gang cause it was an easy way to make some coin. Usually I scare some folks, take a few baubles, let 'em wander off with their purses a little lighter. I didn't know Shad and Eiser were  _mental_."

"I assume those are the dead fellows in the clearing," Dorian said. "Just how bad were they?"

"Very," Cole said through clenched teeth.

"That bad, eh?"

"They were fucked in the head," the archer piped up. "I swear, I ain't like that. I'm no saint, but I ain't like  _that_."

"No, but you let them hurt and harm and have what they wanted from your marks," Cole said. He pointed at the fearful thief. "He was too afraid to stop it, but you could have. And you never did. The coin was too good."

"I said I ain't no saint," the archer spat. "If you're gonna gut us like fish, stop talking and get it over with!"

Krem sheathed his sword. "Well, I'm not killing anyone. Not like this, anyway."

Sinead lowered herself next to Cole. Her eyes were pleading. Everything in her was pleading, begging for him to stop the killing for today. "I know they're not good people, but do they have to die? Can we not give them a chance to find another path?"

"They want no other paths," he said. "They will take from others."

"Will they kill?"

"I…don't know. I can't tell read the  _future_ , Sinead." His anger was fading. He looked at the men trapped in ice, the trembling thief in the bushes. Suddenly his zeal to stop these bandits, permanently, was heavily cooled. He felt a little sick to his stomach. "I…I don't want to hurt anyone we don't have to hurt."

Relief rolled off Sinead, soothing the last of his anger. She looked at the thieves. "The ice will melt. Eventually." She stood and helped Cole up. "I need to get back to the Qunari. Her injuries are terrible, and I fear for her life."

"What, so you're just gonna leave us?" the archer said angrily.

"Shut up, Ollie!" the swordsman snapped.

The foursome left the thieves to their fate and headed back to the clearing.

"That was, hands down, one of the strangest skirmishes I've ever been a part of," Dorian said. "And I've fought some very strange things over the last year or so. Please tell me you won't do that every time we run into trouble."

"I don't know." Sinead's relief had twisted into a disgust in herself. The blackness was edging in on her thoughts. "Excuse me for a moment." She ran behind a tree and retched up her breakfast.

Krem rubbed his eyes. "Maker's breath. This journey is going to be more difficult than I thought."

Cole nodded. "Yes."

He approached Sinead as came back from behind the tree, wiping off her mouth. The sleeve of her dead hand was open and bloody, the wound not yet healed for she felt no pain from it.

"You're hurt."

"What? Oh." She looked down at her arm and healed the cut with a flash of green. She stared at the sleeve. "This was my only clean shirt," she said, her voice cracking.

He reached for her, wanting to help, to comfort, but she shuddered and backed away. That hurt him – it  _hurt_  him. It was like she had stuck him with her knife.

"The woman," she said, tottering off toward the clearing. "I have to help the woman."

He watched her walk away, feeling helpless.

* * *

Dorian's song - "[A Tevinter Ottava Rima](https://soundcloud.com/amber-englebert/a-tevinter-ottava-rima)" 


	8. Tal-Ashkaari

She had done something unforgivably foolish. She knew it was so as soon as Cole reached for her as she walked into the clearing, knew when the hard-eyed man approached her and tugged on her hair. And when Cole’s knife flew past her, when the man died in front of her, when the other thieves ran and blood filled her thoughts, she knew she had risked the lives of her companions and friends out of fear of having to kill.

And, once again, she nearly got Cole killed due to her impulsive need to feed her fear. Once again he wielded his knives to try to fix her mistake.

She was too angry at herself to think properly, to think beyond trying to make things right as quickly and as bloodlessly as she could. When it was done, her body rejected her, made her vomit up her guilt. And when Cole held his hand out to her, she was repelled. He had nearly been killed by one of the men whom she begged him not to kill in turn, had told her that these men would hurt others, would add more pain to the world than good. Yet though she was too weak to watch the men die, and she waltzed into danger simply to test the possibility that not every man in the team of bandits deserved death, Cole still reached out to her to help.

She filled her mind with druffaloes to hide from him and walked, in shame, back to the clearing, the friends she had put in danger following behind in near silence. As she entered the clearing, she forced her anger away. The Qunari woman was in need, and her need was more important now than any thought of herself. She realized that she was still holding her knife and sheathed it.

Sinead lowered herself next to the woman, who watched her warily with deep blue eyes, one of which was swollen and bruised. Her breathing was raspy. The woman’s skin was a light bluish-purple, though Sinead wondered if the color wasn’t lighter than it should be due to blood loss. Her hair was silver, disheveled and falling out in locks from a long French braid. Her horns grew parallel to the crown of her head – so close to her skull that Sinead briefly wondered how the woman managed to comb her hair. They curved down the back of her head, and were abruptly sawed off at the base of her skull and capped with bronze. However her horns once grew, they must have been large and possibly burdensome, for what was left was quite thick. Sinead thought of The Iron Bull’s horns, and wondered how many Qunari actually kept such a crown.

“Not many,” Cole said. “The soldiers, maybe.”

“Wha –“ Krem began, but Dorian touched his shoulder and shrugged. “Oh. A thing he does, right.”

“I assume you understand the common tongue,” Sinead said, shutting the men out and focusing on the woman. “I hope so, anyway. I’m certain you don’t want me to murder Qunlat.”

The woman tried to speak, but could only emit a wheeze. A bit of blood dribbled from her lips. She nodded.

“Good. Don’t try to speak again. I fear one of your lungs may have been punctured.” Sinead pulled at her mana and examined the woman gently with her hands.

“Do you need any help?” Dorian asked, kneeling next to her. “It’s not exactly my forte, but I’ve become fairly adept at field healing.”

“Her leg is broken. I’ll need help setting it before it’s healed,” she replied. She shook her head. “Broken ribs, broken leg, bruises everywhere, and yes, a punctured lung. If they did this much damage, why in Andraste’s flames did they take the time to keep her alive and take her here? She was sure to die without a healer.”

“I don’t think you want to know the answer to that,” Krem muttered as he examined the Qunari’s packs and began repacking them.

Realization snapped in Sinead’s head. She looked up at Cole. “Which one?”

“The one who spoke to you first,” Cole said hesitantly.

Fury welled within her. She looked back at the woman. “Did he?”

The Qunari shook her head and lifted her chin.

 _This is a woman who would have died and taken the man with her if he tried_ , Sinead thought. Again she looked at Cole. “Thank you.”

He raised his brows in surprise, then blinked and nodded.

She got to work, pulling the woman’s ribs carefully into place and healing them, healing the wound in the lung, which made the woman cough, then lowering her and, with Dorian’s help, setting the leg and mending it. The woman turned an even lighter shade of purple when they moved her leg into place, but she made no sound. Finally, Sinead pushed her mana into the woman, healing her contusions.

It was not the worst set of injuries she ever treated, but when she finished she was rather tired. It had been a while since she used her power for major healing. She sat back, feeling a bit muzzy.

“You should be fine,” she said thickly. “You’ll feel some aches in your leg and chest – I can’t get rid of the memory of the injury. But you can speak now if you wish.”

The woman sat up carefully, stretching out her legs and breathing deeply in and out.

“Thank you,” she said in the strange, flat accent of Par Vollen. “I should condemn you for using magic on me, but I admit I prefer not being in pain.”

“Quite rational. Rather typical of the Qunari,” Dorian quipped. “Do you mind if I ask how you managed to be taken by them?” He threw a thumb over his shoulder at the dead men in the clearing, who Cole was removing his knives from at that very moment, careful to wipe the blood off the blades with their shirts.

“I…overestimated the power of my horns,” she replied as she slowly stood. The woman was slighter than other Qunari Sinead had seen – though she had never met a female Qunari, now that she thought about it. However, she still stood a head above Krem, who was the tallest of the group – not that any among them were particularly tall. “I was traveling the path alone, though the villagers who housed me a few days ago warned me of bandits. I thought perhaps a group of bandits would think twice before attacking a Qunari, given our reputation in the south. I was wrong.”

The woman strode across the clearing to Krem, helping him repack her things. “The kindness you have shown me is unexpected,” she continued, folding her linens. “I thought we were far enough from the road to keep the curious at bay. And even if not, it’s unlikely for any to go against a bandit crew to help another.”

“Not as unlikely as you think,” Krem said with a grin. “That’s my usual job. And his.” He nodded at Cole. “The other two, well –“

“It’s more of a hobby for me,” Dorian finished.

“And you?” The woman looked at Sinead as she buckled her pack. “You are lame, so you are not a warrior. Your attempt at subterfuge may have been successful, if not for the sudden attack. Is that your specialty? Or is it healing?”

“Not either, really,” Sinead said, growing pink. “Lore and research are my specialties. Ah. And languages. Somewhat. Though as I said before, my Qunlat is terrible.”

The Qunari furrowed her brow. “You are an academic?”

“Well. Yes. Sort of.”

“And you are attacking bandits for…academic pursuit?”

“Not really. It’s rather a long story.”

“One which I’m sure would bore you,” Dorian said, shooting a warning look at Sinead.

“Ah, of course. You would not share that information with a stranger.” She shouldered her pack, nodding to Krem in thanks. “I am sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve been in Thedas, and even then I typically stayed in Rivain, where people are more welcoming of Qunari. I’ve forgotten how much suspicion we generate.” She began hunting around the clearing, looking at the edge behind trees and kicking her boots through the thick grass. There was a thunk as her foot made contact with something, and her face brightened. She picked up a spear that was at least a head taller than she, the blade thick and tear-drop shaped. “There we are. Whole again.”

“We’re on our way to Rivain, actually,” Krem said. “If you’re going that way, you’re welcome to keep us company.”

“Oh, is she?” Dorian said brightly.

“Come on, pretty boy, she’s already been through enough shite for today. Won’t hurt to have another companion for a few miles.”

“I’m actually traveling south,” the woman replied. “My duty lies there. Or, for now it may lie there, unless the Qun leads me elsewhere.”

“Oh, a nomadic Qunari seeking a mysterious path? Not at all suspicious, that,” Dorian said sardonically.

“It’s okay, Dorian. She simply seeks, searching for truth to improve, enhance, advance, in hopes of helping her homeland – and so her homeland can help.”

Cole was fiddling with his hat as he said this, examining a hole in the brim that had been left by one of the arrows. And thus, he missed the exasperated looks his friends gave him as the woman’s eyes became blue saucers.

“How do you know that?” She looked at Sinead, her shock becoming excited curiosity. “How does he know that? Is he a mage as well?”

“No. Cole is also a long story,” Sinead replied weakly.

“But – he knows my title!”

“Yes.” Cole looked up from his hat and placed it on his head. “Tal-Ashkaari.”

The woman took a few steps back, toward the trees, her mouth open wide.

“Cole, sometimes I wish you’d keep a few things under that hat of yours,” Dorian said with a shake of his head.

“I don’t have the room for more than my head,” Cole said amicably.

“Was that a _joke_? I can’t tell with you. Never mind. Miss, ah, Tal-Ashkaari? Perhaps you’d like to part ways? We can lead you to the road and –“

“Are you the demon who became a man?” Tal-Ashkaari walked briskly over to Cole and started circling him. “Pale, lanky, fast, uses knives. Speaks in riddles and truth. Has hair like an unwashed qalaba. You _are_ he, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” Cole said calmly.

“Astounding.” She touched him lightly on the chest, as if testing his solidity, then leaned into his face, studying his eyes. Cole leaned back, but was unfazed by this examination.

The others were not so composed.

“Wait – you know about Cole?” Dorian sputtered. “Damn it, Bull, did you have to put everything in those reports of yours?”

“That’s not what gets me,” Krem said in disbelief. “Is Cole the reason you’re going south? Please say no. Tell me we didn’t just stumble into one of the biggest coincidences since the Inquisitor got marked. I really don’t want to find out that we’re on some sort of fateful quest or something.”

Sinead was on a completely different plane of thought. “Tal-Ashkaari? True seeker? Is that not redundant? I thought all Ashkaari sought truth.”

“They do. _We_ do. But truth can come in many forms. It is complex.” Tal-Ashkaari took off her pack and rummaging through it until she found a thick notebook, a quill and an inkwell. “Will you let me draw you?” she asked as she flipped open the notebook and prepped the quill. “It will take just a moment. I have a quick hand.”

“Okay,” Cole said, unsure. “Do I have to keep standing?”

“ _Yes_.”

Her hand scribbled over the page.

“I was not looking for the demon,” she finally answered as she worked. “I was sent to Thedas on a mission for the Qun. My task is to find truth, wherever it may be – even truths that the Qunari find uncomfortable, unappealing, unlike our tradition. The Qun is a masterpiece, a work of precision. Interpretation of the Qun, however, is flawed. We can lose our way in our own desires and our own history if we are not careful. ‘To call a thing by its name is to know reason in the world. To call a thing falsely is to put out one’s own eyes.’ We must keep ourselves in constant recognition of the truth, lest we become blind to reality.”

“Still feels like a hell of a coincidence,” Krem muttered.

“It is,” Tal-Ashkaari said a bit breathlessly. “There we are. You may move now.”

“Can I see?” Cole asked sunnily.

She turned the page to him – it was a very good likeness, sketchy, yet catching his easy stance, his floating balance, his usual solemn but not unhappy expression. There were notes all around the sketch, some with arrows pointing at various features.

“Am I really that _thin_?” He asked skeptically.

“You’re a scholar,” Sinead said as she studied the notes, a grin spreading across her face.

“Yes,” Tal-Ashkaari and Cole said at once, which seemed to excite the Qunari. She scribbled a few more notes. “I learned of the demon man from the research I was given before my, ah, group? Unit, would you say? Officially separated for our mission. We were told to expect such strange, saar – sorry, dangerous wonders. But I did not expect to meet the very wonder that I studied.”

“Wonderful. Fascinating. Delightful,” Dorian said. “She isn’t a spy. Can I make a suggestion – perhaps we could carry on this conversation away from the dead bodies?”

Sinead blanched. She had nearly forgotten that they were sharing the clearing with two deceased thieves, what with the Qunari’s injuries and then her excitement.

“I would like to go back to the horses now, yes,” she said mechanically, walking out of the clearing.

“That’s the wrong way,” Cole said, jogging after her.

He tried to take her elbow to lead her, but again she felt vile for how kind he was being, how typical, and shied away.

“I remember now,” she stuttered, turning on her heel and heading the other direction. She ran straight into Tal-Ashkaari.

“I am sorry,” the woman said. “Is it acceptable to you and the others if I traveled with you? I cannot think of a better way to absorb the truths of Thedas than at the side of a man who once was not.”

She had an earnestness about her that made Sinead suddenly wonder about her age. She seemed to be about 30, but her grave curiosity made her seem much younger.

Or perhaps it was because the look the Qunari was giving her, intense and wanting to know, was reminiscent of Cole’s own expression when he was picking at a new idea.

“I would have to ask the others,” she replied doubtfully as she continued walking toward the horses with Cole following behind.

Tal-Ashkaari kept pace with her. “You would? But are you not the leader of your unit? You were the one giving orders.” The Qunari looked at Cole.

“She is, but she isn’t,” Cole replied. “Krem was told he was the leader, but everyone is following Sinead.”

“Hm. Disorganized,” she said critically.

“Yes, but not complicated.”

“Then let us go to your horses.” She shifted the pack on her back to a more comfortable position. “We will ask this Krem. Perhaps he will be satisfied if I give him money?”

“We’re not that kind of –“

“Ho, you don’t have to speak for me, Lady Archivist, I can handle myself,” Krem said as he and Dorian caught up with them. “Now, how much money are we talking about, exactly?”

* * *

They did not quite make it to the Rivaini border before sunset, which disappointed Krem.

“But I suppose that’s what you get when you go breaking apart bandit teams,” he said with good-natured resignation.

That night at camp, the conversation consisted nearly exclusively of Tal-Askaari’s flurry of questions. Questions first for Cole – “You’re human? But you don’t eat or sleep? How do you gain energy to function? When you read minds, is it in images or words? What is the sensation like? Can you make people see _your_ thoughts? What do the other demons think of you?”

Which he answered, in his typical fashion – “Yes. No. The Fade, I think. Yes. Like hearing into someone’s head. Yes, but it’s bloody. They don’t, unless I talk to them, and then they do, but not for long. They call me what I am, before they forget me.”

Then she moved on, asking each person in turn who they were, where they came from, why they were on their journey, and so on. All were cagey about the purpose of their excursion, given that they were technically on a secret mission, but they shared what they could with her, which the Qunari dutifully recorded in her notebook.

Finally, as the night grew long, she ended her interviews, satisfied that she had enough basic information to begin recording daily routine. Krem was already dosing, and Dorian yawning and muttering pointedly about “how high Satina was” and “how comfortable bed rolls were, when you get used to them.”

Tal-Ashkaari closed her notebook and smiled. “I am thankful to all of you for everything you’ve done for me today. You are the last thing I expected from a group of humans from beyond Rivain.”

“I assume the thieves were exactly what you expected, then,” Sinead said quietly.

“Yes. It was an unexpected attack, but I was not surprised,” Tal-Ashkaari admitted. She lay back on her bedroll. “But we are not alone, no matter how much we think we are. You confirmed that today.”

Soon all was silence, but for rhythmic breathing and the shushush of insects as sleep descended on the group. Sinead remained awake, curled on her side, the day’s events undulating through her head. She was not attacked by the blackness, or the panic, her usual enemies when she wished to sleep but could not. But she still felt sick, now that she was alone with her thoughts.

No, the Qunari was right – she was not alone. Not unless she allowed herself to be. Tentatively she pushed the druffaloes out of her head, shaking her thoughts free of their quarantine.

Cole sat up straight from the tree he was laying against. He crept over to her bed roll and lay down next to her on the ground, facing her.

“I thought you were angry at _me_ ,” he said, his voice low. “Because I killed. And because I wanted to kill the loathing ones.”

“The loathing ones?”

“The archer and the swordsman.”

“Oh. No.” She picked at the buckles of her arm brace. “I...I know who you are. You showed me who you are. I have no illusions about that.”

“The hat and the helm.”

“Yes, exactly.” She scrunched up her body. “The truth is, I’m weak. I’m all hat. The men you killed – I trust you when you say they were terrible. Evil. And you’re right about the ones we let go free. They aren’t good people, either. But I couldn’t – I couldn’t let them die without knowing for sure that they were terrible. And I nearly got us all hurt to do it.”

“No you didn’t. I’m very good at fighting. So are Dorian and Krem. None of us was going to die today.” He paused. “But that isn’t really what makes you angry.”

“Why is the world like this?” She whispered suddenly, fervently. “Why are there people who seem to be worth nothing but the relief their death will be to the world? Why are there people who would allow those people to do their harm before they die? And why do people who don’t deserve death get caught up with them? I keep seeing the look on that poor young man’s face, the scared one. How long will he last if he stays with the others? Will he grow hard? Will he be killed by a target who fights back or by soldiers on patrol?”

“If he is, it will be because of his choice.”

“And so he deserves death?”

“Yes. If he’s killed while hurting people.”

Her chest began to ache. He placed his hand at the top of her breastbone and frowned.

“You don’t want to hurt them because of who they should have been. And who they might be someday if they live. I know. But if they are hurting others, people who never hurt anyone, I have to stop them.” He slid his hand on top of hers. “And I –“ He paused.

“And I?”

“I…know you will, too. I know you can,” he continued quietly. “If there is no other way. No one here is not a killer.”

She breathed out a painful breath, thinking of fire and blood, and nodded.

“But if if there _is_ another way, you should…try. There are a lot of helmets in the world. There should be more hats.” He gave her a small smile. “I like hats.”

She returned his smile. They lay together a while, listening to the insects shush, and the low crackling of the dying fire, and the croak of frogs, and the slow, steady breathing of the others. Soon Sinead found herself drifting into dreams, soothed by the susurrus and by Cole’s light touch.


	9. An Inquisitor Interlude

It was quiet on the empty streets below.

Too quiet.

"And now I feel like I'm in one of Varric's books," the Inquisitor muttered, pulling her cloak close around her shoulders.

She stood on the rooftop close to Eluard's apartments, crouched behind a brick chimney. She felt a bit unsteady on the slated roof, a bit exasperated at how much of her job required climbing to the top of buildings and hopping between balconies and so on. She had been on the roof for nearly an hour, and she was starting to cramp.

"Our target can't be here much longer." Serell edged around the chimney and pointed to a dark figure on the rooftop a next to them. "Jone's been on him all day. He's sure to switch out soon. No way his shift lasts much longer."

"But will we be able to tail him today? These people are aggravatingly slippery."

"We've at least determined that they've got a way into and out of that abandoned estate that they're using as a thoroughfare," Serell said. "All we need to do tonight is catch him in the act of opening the door, and we may have 'em."

"Let's hope so." As she spoke, another dark figure appeared next to the first. "Ah! Here it is."

The two figures stood close to each other for a moment, possibly exchanging information. Then the first slipped away.

"Let's go," the Inquisitor hissed.

She and the scout quickly followed the figure, careful to be as silent as possible as they climbed down the building, keeping pace with the cloaked man. They hit the street at the same time, and the figure scuttled down a back alley. The scout and the Inquisitor waited for him to turn a corner then followed speedily behind.

Thus, they followed the man around multiple turns, going deeper into the narrow, angular streets of Old Antiva City. The brick of the buildings became worn and cracked as they walked, the cobblestones uneven and in some places removed.

Finally, the man stopped in front of a rusted gate into what was once a grand estate and was now dilapidated, its garden overgrown. There was a spark of magic as the figure dispelled the gate, and he moved through it. As the gate closed behind him, there was another spark as the spell reset.

The Inquisitor and Serell crept over to the gate and waited for the figure to enter the building. Then, as quick as she could, the Inquisitor dispelled the gate.

"Can't believe it took me two days to figure out this stupid spell," she muttered. "I imagine Dorian would have taunted me mercilessly. And I don't want to think about Solas's reaction."

"Sorry, Inquisitor?"

"Never mind."

The spell sparked, and they were through. They ran to the front door, sliding through it and stepping quietly though the derelict halls. Serell stopped and put a finger to his mouth, lifting his head as if he was listening. Then he led the Inquisitor down a hallway to a darkened doorway.

The figure was there, outlined in shadows, spreading something on a wall with his hand. It glowed red, and the wall cracked and swung open, revealing a staircase that led downwards. The cloaked man looked behind him, forcing the Inquisitor and Serell to duck away. When they looked back, he was gone and the wall was swinging shut.

Serell ran into the room, drawing his knife and jamming it into the crack before the wall closed off completely.

"It's definitely a magic seal," he whispered as the Inquisitor approached. "It's bending my knife out of shape trying to fit back in."

The Inquisitor created a ball of light and examined the wall. She stepped back with a look of disgust.

"It's covered in blood," she said. "Well, I'm not about to try blood magic to force it open. Guess I'll have to do it the non-magic way."

She unhooked her staff, shoved the point into the crack and wiggled a space for the staff to fit, and together they pried open the wall until it no longer attempted to seal.

"Right, let's see where these stairs lead," she said after making sure no damage had been done to her staff.

She extinguished her light, and they stole down the stairs into a long, dimly lit corridor. It stretched off into the distance, and doorways lined the walls.

"If those doorways lead to other corridors, this may take a while," she muttered.

They ran down the corridor, checking doorways as they passed for any indication of light. Some appeared to lead to dark rooms. Others, indeed, led to other corridors. None had any sign of the man in the cloak.

Finally they passed one doorway to another corridor, and in the distance saw a bright, yellow, flickering light, like that from a fire. They looked at each other, agreeing with a nod to examine the light, and crept down the hallway. As the light grew brighter, the Inquisitor noticed that a shadow was cast on the opposite wall – the shadow of a man. She grinned and thought,  _We've got him_.

"Pardon me, Inquisitor, but I'd rather you not skulk outside my door," a pleasant voice said.

The Inquisitor started in surprise and looked at Serell, who shook his head in shock.

"I can hear you out there," the voice said with a chuckle. "It's rather hard to hide from me, I'm afraid."

 _Well, one does want to know what this is about_ , she thought. She settled her face into a stern look and approached the doorway with an easy gait.

There was, indeed, a man standing in what turned out to be a large room set up like a parlor. Comfortable chairs sat at every angle, the walls were lined with bookcases, and a thick rug on the floor. A merry fire crackled in the fireplace, dispelling the chill of the cellar air.

The man was not cloaked, and was actually built leaner than the figure they had followed. His hair was gray, his eyes dark brown, his skin fair. And he was an elf, she noted. Without a vallaslin. Dressed in travel leathers.

"I take it that you are Titus," she said easily, holding her hand out to stop the scout from following her as she entered the room.

"I am he," Titus said with a smile. "Very good deduction. I assume your people have kept you informed while you visited Antiva."

"They did indeed. And what they implied was that you were a couple days out at least from Antiva City, even in the best weather. I am very curious as to how you arrived here so soon."

"Life is full of curiosities," Titus said. He waved to a chair. "Sit, please. Would you like tea? Are you sure your companion is comfortable out there in the hall?"

She narrowed her eyes. There was something about this elf, something that felt… _odd_. Like a pulling sensation that she could not quite figure out.

"He's fine," she said, sitting in a thick stuffed chair near a low ebony table topped with a tea service. Titus sat across from her and poured two cups of tea, handing one to her, which she took with a nod.

"Well, I suppose you have questions for me," Titus said, taking a sip.

"Aside from the one about how you managed to get to Antiva City? Oh, yes." She balanced the teacup and saucer on her knee. "Who are you, Titus? What do you want with my Head Archivist? She's a bit spooked by your appearance – apparently to her knowledge, you're dead."

Titus shook his head. "I'm sure the man she calls Eluard has told her many tales," he said with a sigh. "And I'm sure she believes them all. I don't blame my granddaughter for her suspicion – Eluard presents himself as a friend, a benevolent teacher. And, given his powers, he has the means to make his façade seem very believable. He's a dreamer, you know. Has a number of spirit friends he calls upon – Peace, Study, Wisdom, Faith, Charity, to name a few. It takes patience to gain the trust of these types, a belief in the self that your actions are, indeed, kind. For the greater good."

His eyes hardened as he took another sip, and he set his cup and saucer down with a clink. "The truth is, Inquisitor, the man is a monster. The worst kind – a monster who thinks he does good. He has used nearly everyone in my bloodline in an attempt to achieve his goal, stymying my efforts to stop him."

"Wait, back up." The Inquisitor set down her tea, finished attempting to pretend that she was going to drink it. "What is his goal? Why does he need your bloodline?"

"He needs my bloodline to finish a spell he started, with my help, long ago," Titus said. He pulled up his sleeves, revealing the many scars of a man who either uses – or was used – for blood magic. "A spell that I refuse to explain to you, for it would have disastrous results if it becomes common knowledge. My blood was used in the initial casting – only my blood, or that of my progeny, can be used to bring it to fruition."

"I'm confused," the Inquisitor said, crossing her arms. "Eluard left a message implying that  _you're_  the threat, which Sinead has no reason to disbelieve, given her upbringing with the man. And from what I know of her childhood, I can understand that. He seemed to be like a father to her – he was her teacher and her protector, and her mother trusted him."

"Her mother knew nothing," Titus snapped. "Only what Eluard told her. That Marcus died when he gained the ire of the Crows. That her child was in danger, and they must flee as far from Antiva as they could go. Anything she doubted, I'm sure he nudged her with his blood." He balled his hands into fists. "I escaped Eluard's influence long ago, managed to keep my family safe from him for years. Then he appeared in the city, and everything fell apart. Marcus is dead and my granddaughter stolen away through his machinations. Everything I worked for upended, years of planning crumbling to dust."

The man was clearly in pain. The Inquisitor softened a bit. Whatever Titus had been through, it caused him quite a bit of distress.

"If he needed her blood for a spell, why did he not simply use her once she was born?" she asked gently.

Titus let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "That's the beauty of the spell, Inquisitor. The person whose blood you draw from must be willing. Nay, must be a part of the spell proper! If he was wise, he would have taught her blood magic from a young age. Taught her it was benign, if in the right hands."

The Inquisitor kept her face blank. He leaned forward on his chair.

"I'm right, aren't I? She's a blood mage. Oh, ser, you are as crafty as you've always been." He covered his face with his hands.

"So, you were a willing participant in this mysterious, questionable spell, then," the Inquisitor said, changing tack.

"Oh, yes, fool that I was." He folded his hands together. "I was younger, then. This spell…I was convinced by the man that we were on to a breakthrough that would change Thedas forever, for the better. But let me be clear, Inquisitor – the spell, if completed, will be a disaster. Not, perhaps, the kind of disaster that would swallow the world," he said with a smile. "But it would make your task of keeping the peace far more difficult, I assure you."

She mulled over the information that Titus had given her. Sinead was long gone by this time, off to find Seer Hana, so she was safe whether this elf was being honest about Eluard's malicious intents or he just fed her a load of alas. But what Titus said troubled her. Why  _would_  a man teach his young charge blood magic, if not in an effort to indoctrinate her? Then again, the impression she had of Titus still felt odd. She wished Cole was there to give her his read.

"Your… _granddaughter_  is safe for now," she said finally. "I've taken steps to make sure she'll not come to any harm from Eluard. Or anyone else." She put an edge in her last words, to make clear who she thought "anyone else" may be.

"Your precautions may not be enough." Titus stood and picked up a staff that was leaning against his chair. "I'll not see the last of my line put down by that man. She is far too important."

"Important?" The Inquisitor stood. "What do you mean by important?"

"She's important to  _me_ ," he replied, walking from the room. "She should be. She's all that's left of my family."

The Inquisitor followed him down the corridor, shaking her head at Serell as she passed him. "And 'last of your line…' that's a phrase with some heavy connotations."

Titus laughed. "I assure you, I'm not a secret ruler of an ancient Elven kingdom, and my granddaughter is not my heir apparent, if that's what worries you." He stepped into a dark room, lifting his staff. A blue light appeared above their heads. The room was small, and propped up against the wall was a large mirror.

"An eluvian?" The Inquisitor stepped back in shock. "You have an eluvian?"

"They're not so hard to find, if you take the time," Titus said amicably. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Inquisitor, I must find my granddaughter." He took a small stone from his pocket and swiped the surface of the eluvian with it. It began to shimmer.

"Good luck. She's rather far from her as of now," the Inquisitor said skeptically, looking from the eluvian to Titus.

"But, madam, you already told me where she's headed." He gave her a gentle smile. "I recommend not touching the mirror – it's primed to shatter if you do."

He stepped through and disappeared. The Inquisitor called out "wait!" but the mirror went black before she reached it, brushing her fingers against the surface. Suddenly it went red, and cracks spead across the glass. The Inquisitor gasped and ran from the room, managing to skid around the doorway just as shards of glass exploded outward with such force that some were lodged into the stone walls. She peaked around the door – the eluvian was destroyed.

Serell came running up to her. "What in Andraste's flames was that?" he cried.

"A problem," she replied firmly. "We need to get to the Circle. I have to talk to my advisors immediately. And send someone to clear out that man's room – I want to know as much about him as possible."


	10. Tal-Vashoth

Sinead leaned over the frozen log, frowning.

“You’ve done it again,” she said with a sigh. “It’s iced through.”

“Damn.” Dorian walked over to her and kneeled next to the log. “This can’t possibly be as hard as I’m making it.”

“I told you, it’s not about the oomph,” she said, irritated. “You _must_ hold back some of your power to keep control. Else you don’t have an ice-trap, you have a lump of ice.”

“Feels completely unnatural,” he muttered, turning the log on its side. “If I hold back, it goes far too slow for me to actually catch anything. Are you sure this isn’t a blood magic thing?”

“Of course not. I’ve done it before without blood. I only used blood with the thieves to speed things along. What you need is better motivation.” She walked over to the camp, where Krem was dosing while Tal-Ashkaari interviewed Cole (she chose one of the party every evening as an interviewee), rummaged through Dorian’s pack, and pulled out one of his preciously hoarded books. She stepped back to Dorian and set the book on the ground. “All right, aim for the book. You know what you’re risking if you don’t succeed.”

“Which one is that? Oh, no, _A Night of Passionate Debate_? I can’t ruin my favorite book on rhetoric.”

“Then don’t ruin – wait, rhetoric?” She looked at the cover, which had a rather muscular man holding a sword high among a number of robed men at what looked like a bath hall.

“Tevinter has a very _particular_ idea of what it takes to win a debate,” Dorian explained. He took a breath and raised his staff. “Well, let’s see if _your_ way works.”

They were three days out from Ayesleigh, which was a joyful, colorful town that smelled of so many spices that it made Sinead sneeze. The food was equally spicy, something that she was trying to get used to in the inns they stayed at, though her stomach and tongue desperately demanded the blander vittles she was familiar with. But she felt she could turn nothing down – the Rivainis were incredibly sociable, demanding that she eat and drink until she practically rolled into bed at night.

It was almost a relief to be able to sleep outside for a night, supping on the birds Krem managed to shoot and stale bread, hearing nothing but the sound of wind and wildlife. The trees now surrounded them as they walked the road to Kont-Arr, something that made her feel solid and comfortable. Though these woods were warmer and wetter than the ones she grew up in, the din and smell of life felt like home. She smiled up at the trees, at Luna’s face peeking through the canopy.

The only oddness in their travels now was the presence of Tal-Ashkaari. Krem took to her as he seemed to take to anyone he found trustworthy – “if Cole thinks you’re all right, I won’t complain if you want to tag along for a while with us.” He answered her questions with good humor.

Cole was equally content with her following them – in fact, he asked Krem to let her have the extra horse. “She won’t complain,” he said. “The horse, I mean.”

Dorian, on the other hand, was skeptical of the addition of the Qunari. “I understand that she’s not a spy or malicious. However, all she does is poke and prod us with questions. And do we really need to be feeding the Qunari information about us, let alone Cole? I see a future where someone in their upper echelons uses that information against us…”

“Their opinion of Thedas will never change if we don’t give them reason to believe we aren’t all decadent idiots with our eyes closed to the danger of magic,” Sinead countered. “Her whole job is to keep the Qunari informed of reality as it is, rather than how they assume it to be. I can’t deny her a bit of knowledge. It’s not as if we have to tell her everything.”

And so Tal-Ashkaari stayed despite Dorian’s objections, never enquiring as to the wheres and whys of their travels once she realized it was not a topic anyone wished to discuss. Instead she focused on whats and hows – how it was to work under a Tal-Vashoth, how a Tevinter mage viewed Southern Thedas, what it was like to be a mage, how a spirit saw the world. She always asked politely, making copious notes as her interviewees answered her careful, pointed questions.

“Kaffas!”

Sinead broke from her thoughts and looked down at Dorian’s book. The beginnings of a crystalline cage surrounded it, but its pages were frozen together.

“You pushed?”

“Perhaps.” Dorian snapped his fingers, melting the ice, and picked up the soggy book with a frown. “I think that’s enough for today. It’s been a while since I felt like a novice. Oh, no, wait – I’ve _never_ felt like that.”

“It’s just a difference of technique,” she soothed as they walked back into the camp. “I certainly cannot throw out the kind of power you do with such control unless I’m using blood. When I do a burst, I simply let it go until everything stops burning.”

“Well, now you’re flattering me to make me feel better.” He sat on his bed roll and shook out the book. “It’s working. You can continue.”

“Pardon me, Sinead.” Tal-Ashkaari looked up from her notebook. “I’m not quite understanding some of these descriptions that Cole has given me.”

“Oh?” Sinead smiled at Cole, who shrugged his shoulders. He was working on another trinket, a bigger one than previous figurines. It had yet to take shape beyond a cylindrical block.

She had found herself pushed into the role as the Qunari woman’s Cole-translator, which was becoming increasingly amusing to her. “What was the question, and what was his response?”

“Question: What does the physical world feel like to a spirit? Answer: Like a frozen river. Question: can you elaborate? Answer: Forever fast in place, formed and solid, static, still. It makes them dizzy.” Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. “I do not understand.”

“Seems fairly simple to me,” Dorian interrupted. “The Fade is constantly changing. One can even affect the very nature of the Fade with emotions alone, if they have the power. The physical world must be like hitting one’s head against a brick wall for a spirit.”

“That is the most likely meaning,” Sinead agreed. “Cole?”

“Yes.” Cole said the word definitively, still working on the wood block. “This world refuses to move without pushing. The Fade is mobile. Malleable. It is what those who walk it want it to be.” He looked up from his carving. “Even the sleeping people shape it, showing the spirits scenes from their minds. If you fear, there will be fear. If you are calm, there will be calm.”

“I have heard this about the Fade,” Tal-Ashkaari mused. “It is within our research, though it is not common knowledge. Most Qunari think of the Fade as the place where the dead reside. Not a pleasant idea. Still, even if this belief is inaccurate, the truth sounds no better. The Fade’s denizens and visitors shaping the landscape with their thoughts…it is unnerving to contemplate.”

“It’s only unnerving when the shape is unnerving.” Dorian lay back on his bed roll and put his hands behind his head. “Sometimes it’s pillows and sweets. Sometimes it’s giant spider demons. Either way it’s a fascinating experience.”

“Is this true? You find it fascinating, even when it’s appalling?”

“Qunari generally think of demons as appalling, yet you’re analyzing Cole,” Sinead pointed out. “Not that he’s a demon, but he was once mostly spirit, which your people also condemn – or, I mean. Disapprove of,” she corrected.

Tal-Ashkaari smiled. “Ah, yes, of course. Even that which is seemingly unnerving still intrigues.” She chuckled. “My superiors fear that it _enthralls_. They have difficulty trusting that temptation does not plague their charges.”

“Sounds like the Templars in the Gallows,” Sinead said wryly. “Treating mages as if demons are always picking at our minds.”

The Qunari raised her brows. “They are not?”

“Only the weakest mages have that problem.” Dorian circled a hand over his head. “Some people have no stomach for magic. Now _that_ is appalling. Oh great Qunari truth-seeker, surely you would know this about mages – it’s practically the first thing we learn when the power presents itself.”

Tal-Ashkaari cleared her throat. “I have not had the opportunity to fully interview a mage,” she said carefully, looking at her notes. _Why, she’s embarrassed_! Sinead thought. “Seers are secretive about their craft. Other mages have been less…open with their knowledge.”

“Not too keen to talk to a great horned woman, you mean,” Dorian quipped. “Wonder of wonders.”

Perhaps,” she said. “Whatever the reason for their silence, you are the first mages I’ve had the privilege to talk extensively to.”

“Dorian, don’t be an arse.” Sinead gave him a cross look. “An arse he may be, but Dorian is right. You can’t be a good mage without bolstering yourself. Strong mind, strong heart.” Sinead tapped her temple and chest. “You make yourself as uninteresting to the demons as possible. Like a…like a hedgehog. All prickly.”

“I like hedgehogs,” Cole said, his voice brightening.

“Oh, me, too! They’re little clever spikey balls with cute noses.”

“And they never worry much about what’s around them. Small things are usually afraid. Not hedgehogs.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I found a hedgehog, and my mother –“

“– jumped three feet when you unwrapped it from your shirt?”

They laughed at her memory, at the visions of her mother’s face in her mind.

Krem cracked open an eye. “They’re doing it again.”

“I know. Makes me a bit queasy,” Dorian muttered.  

“Hm.” Tal-Ashkaari started writing furiously in her notebook.

Sinead grinned at the Qunari. She liked the woman – in fact, had grown to appreciate her company. There was something comforting about knowing, without a doubt, that all peoples were the same on some level. Here was a woman who followed a philosophy from birth that was drastically different than anything Sinead had been exposed to. Yet, like many people she had met while at the Circle and then as part of the Inquisition, Tal-Ashkaari was a woman who dedicated herself to research, who reveled in _knowing_. She kept her eyes open, asked questions, never assumed, and corrected herself when her assumptions were wrong. And she was so polite, and helpful when making up camp, and always had a kind word to say to the innkeepers and shopkeepers they visited on their journey. She was so unlike the Qunari as she was told they should be – always obedient, never questioning, gruff to those who did not follow the Qun.

 _What else don’t I know about their culture?_ she wondered. _What am I missing from their story because all we have seen of them are the soldiers and the ben-hassrath?_

Cole gave Sinead a thoughtful look. “Tal-Ashkaari, may I ask you a question?”

“You have earned it,” Tal-Ashkaari said with a nod. “You have been most accommodating as an interviewee. I have rarely had a subject so willing to share their thoughts and knowledge with me.”

“Be careful about saying yes,” Dorian said suddenly. “His questions can be fierce.”

“Not this one,” Cole reassured her. “I hear the songs you sing to yourself. Why don’t you sing them out loud?”

Tal-Ashkaari stiffened. “You hear songs? In my head?”

“Many of them. Some in great choruses. They’re very pretty, all the voices flowing together. And your own voice, alone among many, clear and calm…“

Dorian sat up. “You sing? Bull told me the Qunari have music, but he’s never shared any with me, which is a pity. Is it all marches? I bet it’s all marches.”

“I do sing,” she said shortly. “My voice was deemed acceptable to use as an instrument. I was allowed amateur study along with my other apprentice duties, so that I could boost the contentment of those around me.”

“Only those with good voices are allowed to sing?” Sinead could not help the disapproval within her voice. It was a terrible thought, that someone could not sing if the mood permitted it, even if it was completely off key. Somehow it was worse to her than the idea of not being allowed to ask too many questions.

“It is not that they’re not allowed. It is that Qunari, as a whole, demand precision in every craft. One has time to learn, of course. To practice. But if one cannot achieve a relative mastering of a skill, then it is seen as embarrassing to attempt that skill in front of others. To sing when one’s voice is not made for singing is to bring yourself shame and pity.” Tal-Ashkaari twirled her pencil between two fingers. “Meanwhile, all people with naturally good voices sing.” Tal-Ashkaari’s voice went flat. “All of them. It is a gift of the body, the ability to make music. It is a duty to hone it along with your true occupation. One should not deny that gift to others. It is selfish.”

“Selfish to sing if you’re voice is like a foghorn, selfish not to sing if you have the voice of a nightingale. You know, I think I’ve just heard the only Qunari rule I can agree with,” Dorian said.

“I am glad there is at least one,” She said, humor returning to her voice. “Perhaps there is hope for you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But if you think singing is your duty, why do you hate it so much?” Cole broke in. “Is it because you have to? Because you had to for Itwa?”

Sinead looked at Cole, who was focused on the Qunari. Tal-Ashkaari was quiet a moment.

“I…think I would like to sleep now,” she said finally, setting aside her notebook and laying down on her bedroll.

“I warned you,” Dorian said, laying down again.

Sinead stared at the Qunari, then sat next to Cole. “Why?” she whispered.

“That’s one of the stories you’re missing,” he whispered back. “But it’s her story to tell.”

* * *

 

The crew frequently passed through forest villages, small groupings of people whose daily lives consisted of subsistent farming and lumber, who dressed in colorful outfits and greeted the travelers with an easy openness. At every village, Sinead asked to speak to the Seer who was the village’s official advisor. The seer was always willing to talk to Sinead, to bring her into her cabin for tea and news of the southern countries. But once she asked after Seer Hana, the village seer would often cut the visit short, politely and firmly.

“This is not nearly as easy as Eluard claimed it would be,” she said after they passed through one village where the seer laughed and told Sinead to leave her cabin immediately. “What is it about this seer that has everyone so close-lipped?”

“She could be a pariah,” Dorian said.

“Or maybe they’re trying to protect her,” Krem countered. “If people see her as some sort of leader, it’s not that surprising that they aren’t giving out her address to every weird set of travelers who passes through town.”

“Well, it’s becoming a hassle,” Sinead grumped. “What’s the point of this entire journey if we can’t even find the person we’re looking for?”

“Why do you need to see this Seer Hana?” Tal-Ashkaari asked.

“Because –“ Cole began.

“Inquisition business,” Dorian said quickly over him. “Perhaps we should stop talking about it in front of the record keeper.”

“Understood,” the Qunari responded with a nod.

Though the seers were not keen on telling them anything about Seer Hana, the villagers were welcoming, allowing the crew to sleep in their barns and eat at their tables, so long as they had something to trade. Their money was seen as not particularly useful. Tal-Ashkaari’s linens and silks, however, were greatly appreciated.

“It is Rivaini custom,” she explained. “Did you not know before you traveled here?”

“I never really traveled through Rivain like this before,” Krem said sheepishly. “The Chargers are more, ah, ‘camp in the woods to avoid exposing the nice villagers to us’ kind of people.”

And so they continued northward, from village barn to village barn, down the road to Kont-arr.

One morning, Sinead found herself jolted from sleep and a pleasant dream by Cole – he shook her bodily until her eyes fluttered open and she pushed at his chest with a “What? What’s going on?”

“The village is being attacked!” he said frantically, moving over to Krem and shaking him as well. “You have to wake up!” Krem snorted awake, and he moved on to Dorian, who slapped him back almost as soon as he touched him.

Sinead cocked her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes blearily. There was no noise in the village – just the last creaking of the crickets. “I don’t hear anything,” she said with a yawn.

“Because they’re not here yet,” Cole said, jumping to Tal-Ashkaari and shaking her awake. “They’re sneaking, slinking silently through the forest, weapons ready and raised. They’ll kill everyone!”

Krem reached for his breastplate and stumbled to his feet as he buckled it on. “Who?”

“Tal-Vashoth.”

Immediately Tal-Ashkaari was alert. She leapt up, taking up her staff, and ran for the door.

“Wait!” Krem blocked her way. “How many are there, Cole?”

“They’re surrounding the village, bloody, hungry, angry, raging –“

“How many?”

Before Cole could answer, there was a crash in the distance, and a cry.

“We have to help!” Cole said desperately as the cries increased in number. “They aren’t thinking, not like people. They want to destroy, to defeat, to feed the despair.”

“This is going to be unpleasant,” Dorian muttered as he took up his staff.

“We cannot wait much longer.” Tal-Ashkaari ducked around Krem. “They will not be merciful to these people.”

“Right,” Krem said, his voice gaining an edge of command as he unsheathed his sword. “Sinead, if you can’t fight, for Maker’s sake stay out of sight. Tal-Vashoth are no joke. You’ll not be able to play nice with them.” He looked at the others. “Let’s go.”

Krem, Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari ran from the barn and into the fray, leaving Sinead behind, shocked and ashamed. Cole pulled her to her feet.

“Please help,” he said, leading her to the door at a run and pulling her through. “ _Please_ help. Look.”

The village was in flames. The smell of green tinder filled her nose, and shadows were thrown against the forest by the fires in the early morning twilight. People were fleeing in all directions carrying goods and children on their backs – fleeing right into the flashing swords of great horned men coated in red paint, calling out battle cries as they cut people down.

Her head went blank for a moment as memories of fire and blood filled her head. Then her mind became a pinpoint of anger. Without further thought, she pulled away from Cole and drew her knife, pulled up the sleeve on her dead hand, and cut, drawing power from the blood.

Instantly the early morning became lighter, the cries more individual, the smoke more acrid, her task clearer. She shot Cole a look, who nodded at her, and they ran to a group of four Tal-Vashoth menacing two young families. As one of the fathers darted in front of his children and a sword cut him down, Sinead lifted her hand up, then swung it down with force. The Tal-Vashoth lifted off their feet and were slammed into the ground on bellies and backs. They attempted to recover, but Cole was on them – a knife across one’s throat, a spin and another knife through one’s heart. One lifted to his knees and Sinead froze him in place, pushing until he was frozen through. Cole jumped atop the ice statue’s shoulders and came down on the fourth, jamming his knife into the Tal-Vashoth’s neck and pulling it out with a spurt of blood.

“You need to run,” he said to the shocked villagers, wiping a sleeve across his blood-spattered face. He pointed at the forest. “That way is clear. Don’t stop until you’ve counted to one hundred.”

The villagers ran, the wife of the dead man pulling her children from their father. Cole waved at Sinead, and they moved further into the village toward the sound of clanging. Some of the villagers had taken up old weapons and farm tools, trying to push the Tal-Vashoth back. They were hopeless against the horned men, each swing of a Tal-Vashoth’s sword taking a villager with it. Krem was with them, his face a mask of concentration, beating down and slaying any Tal-Vashoth who made the mistake of attacking him.

Sinead’s anger grew as she took in the battered men and women littering the ground. She made a fist. The line of Tal-Vashoth burst into flame. They cried out, beating at their limbs, screaming as their flesh seared away. With this advantage, the villagers began overtaking the Tal-Vashoth. Sinead pushed until the flames were blue and the Tal-Vashoth were on their knees in agony.

“That’s enough,” Cole said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She let the fire burn a moment longer, then let go. She shook her head, feeling a little light-headed as her blood-tinged mana tried to replenish itself. She had nearly overdone it.

Cole gave her a look, then joined the villagers, adding his knives to their fight, until nothing was left of the small horde but smoking bodies.

“Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari are trying to help the villagers clear the perimeter,” Krem said, wiping his brow. “I think there’s two main groups left of these fuckers. Maker, I hate Tal-Vashoth. Always fight dirty.”

Everyone still standing and armed ran for the edge of the village, toward the screams and cries of victims and attackers.

There was a flash of lightning that lit up the trees, then a burst of flame as Sinead turned the corner on a group of buildings. Dorian spun his staff, sending a wave of flame at a group of Tal-Vashoth. A few fell. Most of them jumped back into the trees, out of range of his magic.

“I’m trying not to destroy everything in my path,” Dorian panted as the others reached him. “Perhaps I should give that up. These bastards are relentless.”

“Let me try.” Sinead drew from her power, seeking out the hidden Tal-Vashoth, feeling seven men tramping around, looking for a good place to make another assault, then latched on to each and yanked them bodily out of the woods. They flew into the village, landing with crunches and cries. The villagers were on them in an instant, cutting each horned man down with no pity.

“Another neat trick,” Dorian said appreciatively. “Are you sure you’re a librarian?”

They continued to the final group of Tal-Vashoth, a scattered bunch who had made their way into the village, killing and maiming indiscriminately, ransacking buildings of goods. The crew and the villagers branched out, running down the attackers before the attackers could kill again. Sinead and Cole worked rhythmically, she grabbing hold of a Tal-Vashoth and forcing him to the ground with her power, he ending them with the point of his blade.

Finally, as they were running around a house whose door had been kicked in and goods scattered across the threshold, Cole took her arm and stopped. He looked up.

“They’re all gone, hurt or dead,” he said.

“It’s over?” Adrenaline still coursed through her body, her mind was still focused, but she began to shake violently. Darkness rimmed her thoughts. She swayed on her feet.

Cole sheathed his knives and caught her as she fell back. “It’s not over,” he said urgently. “So many are hurting. You can’t let go yet.”

“Right.” She took a shuddering breath and steadied herself. Focused on the anger, focused on the desire to help. “Right. Show me to the injured.”

He obeyed, leading her around a few houses to the village square, where men and women were already gathering the injured and the dead. A group of villagers had created a bucket chain between the well and the burning houses. They worked quickly, killing the fires before they took the whole village.

Tal-Ashkaari was walking around the casualties that the villagers stretched over the stones of the square. Tal-Vashoth were among the groaning wounded, calling out in Qunlat. Every Tal-Vashoth she came upon, she stopped by his side, spoke in harsh tones, and waited for a reply. In nearly all instances, none came. Then she flipped her spear and stabbed the Tal-Vashoth through the throat, ending his moans of pain.

Sinead took this all in, and again focus overtook her, the old focus of working in surgeries. She slipped away from Cole, walked up to Tal-Ashkaari and said snappishly, “what are you doing?”

“I am ending their pain,” the Qunari replied. Her voice was filled with cold wrath. “I’m cutting them down like the rabid animals they’ve become.”

She turned to another Tal-Vashoth and said something in Qunlat. The Tal-Vashoth said nothing, staring at Tal-Ashkaari defiantly. She flipped her spear.

“Wait.” Sinead stopped the spear with her hand. She crouched next to the horned man, whose legs had been sliced to ribbons by a scythe. The amount of pain he was in had to be great – she could see, with the power of her blood, the nerves pulsing within him. She placed a hand on the man’s chest and numbed his pain throughout his body. He relaxed, giving her a wary look.

“Why?” The question came from her involuntarily. The man did not have the eyes of a beast, yet what Cole said implied that every Tal-Vashoth among the attackers was beast-like. “Why?”

“Why does the wolf kill?” he said in flat tones.

“To eat.” Her voice grew hard. “That slaughter was not simply for food.”

“No. The wolf kills for that is its nature. This is our nature.”

“To deny the Qun is to deny one’s sentience. One’s purpose.” Tal-Ashkaari placed the tip of her spear against the Tal-Vashoth’s throat. “He accepts that he is a creature without honor.”

“That is bullshit.” Sinead dug her fingers into the Tal-Vashoth’s chest, her whole body rigid with anger. “I’ve met Tal-Vashoth. They aren’t all monsters. They don’t do _this_.”

“Perhaps those grey ones still hold the Qun within them.”

The Tal-Vashoth let out a bark of a laugh. “Maraas imekari, Tal-Ashkaari. You seek the truth and yet know nothing. We are true to the Qun. We know our place. Those that do not go mad are more than lost.”

“No man who is true to the Qun would kill innocents. _Children_ ,” Tal-Ashkaari spat.

The Tal-Vashoth smiled slightly. “I was Sten before I was Tal-Vashoth. Know this truth – a soldier will kill innocents. The Qun does not save him from that duty when his Kithshok demands it.” He took hold of the end of Tal-Ashkaari’s spear and set it against his throat. “Parshaara. End it.”

Sinead looked up at Tal-Ashkaari. The Qunari looked troubled. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes creased in sadness.

“Na’thek,” she said finally. “Meravas.”

She thrust the spear into the Tal-Vashoth’s throat. Blood erupted from his mouth, and his eyes dimmed. His head slumped to the side as Tal-Ashkaari lifted her spear.

“So many untruths to sort from the truths,” she muttered.

“Are you all right?” The words left Sinead, and she was not sure if they were for the Qunari or for herself. The blood from the mouth of the former Sten – it nearly sent her reeling back toward the blackness.

Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. “I am not.” She wandered down the line, seeking out other Tal-Vashoth among the wounded.

“Sinead.” Cole had watched all this from a distance. Now he was at her side, gently pulling her away from the dead man to a woman who held her stomach and whimpered in agony. “They need you.”

She looked around at the writhing mass of the injured, two or three people working quickly to help them, the village’s seer among them. She came to earth, feeling solid in the need to help, to fix what she could.

She placed a hand on the moaning woman next to her, examining her wounds.


	11. The After

The hardest part of an attack was not the attack. An attack had fear and panic and death, but it also had adrenaline and speed and acts that saved the last left lingering. Attacks were fast, fearsome, and then finished.

The after was much harder. Picking up the pieces while praying for pity from the gods, weeping over those lost, those hurt beyond full repair, things that weren’t given a thought before they were no more.

The dead and wounded were all collected and the villagers moved on to cleanup. Krem volunteered himself to help build a massive funeral pyre near the small chantry’s grounds. He was off in the woods collecting lumber. Dorian was moving rubble load by load from the destroyed houses, his magic speeding the work along much faster than the villagers could manage on their own. Tal-Ashkaari had given up all of her linens and silks for shrouds, and was helping a group of women with the dead.

Cole made sure Sinead was wrapped within her healing before leaving her to help others. He managed the little things, the things that people often forgot in a frenzy – digging trinkets out of rubble, finding people still stumbling around in the woods and leading them home, sharing stashes of sweets found in homes with children still in shock, pulling dogs and cats from their hiding places deep within cellars or up trees. It was the little things that made a person whole, the little bits of memory and joy and knowing that someone was there listening and caring. Clearing rubble and burning the dead would always be completed – finding a woman’s mother’s grandmother’s wedding teaspoon, however, was too often dismissed as unimportant. Yet the light in the eyes of that woman when he produced the spoon from his pocket told Cole it was the most important.

By mid-afternoon, the pyre was complete and the wounded who would live were treated. Sinead staggered off to the barn, waves of exhaustion rippling from her. Her thoughts were barely coherent, her eyes only kept open this long due to the urgency of her task.

Cole was busy trying to coax a cat from a rooftop when he felt Sinead fall into a deep, fitful sleep. He approved.  The less time she had to think about the deaths she caused, the less likely the darkness would swallow her. It was a risk, to urge her to fight – but if she had not, and the deaths of the innocent were many, the darkness would have come for her anyway, a guilty spiral of hate.  He hoped the sleep would push the blackness back before it had time to become a problem.

The cat finally crept to him over the thatching and jumped on his shoulder. “See, there’s nothing below but people, now,” he said as he climbed down the house, using the slats as footing. “You didn’t have to stay up there so long and make yourself hungry.”

The cat gave a mournful mew and hopped away from him once his feet touched the ground.

A gong sounded in the village square, summoning the people. They dropped their tasks and walked to the square, and Cole followed them, feeling their sadness and loss and anger and despair and grief. Dorian caught him up, falling into step beside him.

“You all right, Cole?” he asked. He was haggard – or, as haggard as Dorian allowed himself to be. His clothes were dusty from ash, he needed a shave and his hair had not been combed given how quickly events happened. He felt tired, tired in a way that was more than physical – his mana was depleted more than once as he worked, and the sadness of the villagers was starting to cling to him. “You’ve been running around all day. I saw you flit about the rooves earlier.”

“Yes. I’m fine.” Cole dug in his pocket and pulled out a bag of hard candies. He held them out to Dorian.

“Oh, no, I – wait, are these rum spice? I don’t think I’ve had one of these since I was an apprentice!” He scooped a few candies from the bag and popped them in his mouth. His mood lightened a little, memories flickering around the fatigue. “One of the best things about Northern Thedas – the food is demonstrably better here.”

Cole gave him a small smile and pocketed the candies.

In the square, the village seer stood atop a small platform, her hands raised. She felt peculiar, like she was holding a conversation within herself, voices whispering back and forth in the quiet place of the mind. Then it dawned on Cole – a spirit was within her, joined with her to help her lead in this difficult moment. The spirit was kind, solid, friendly, soothing – Confidence.

The seer waited for the square to fill, and then spoke in a clear, carrying voice.

“We have experienced a tragedy today,” she said. “One which should have been avoided. We had no notice of the threat of Tal-Vashoth, something our Qunari neighbors have always warned us of before. We have sent runners to other villages, both of our kind and Qunari, to gather information. I assure you, we will make sure this never happens again.”

She nodded to a group of men, a group that included Krem, who began carrying the shrouded bodies to the pyre. The villagers watched in silence as the bodies were stacked together in rows atop the pyre. When the task was done, the seer picked up a torch, lit it with her magic, walked in even steps to the pyre, then lit it as she circled it.

Flames leapt up, clawing away at the linen covering the dead. Smoke drifted over the villagers, smelling of evergreen and cooking meat. The villagers were no longer silent. Most wept openly, some called for their dead, holding those who were left. Many gagged on the smell, holding their noses as they sobbed.

“I hate this part. Let’s speed it along, shall we?” Dorian lifted his staff. The flames climbed into the air, growing hot and fierce, covering the top of the pyre. Soon the smell of meat was replaced by the sharp smell of char. Dorian let go of the flames, and they flickered down again to a steady burn. “There we are. The last thing these people need is to lose their lunch.”

Cole nodded. The little things were important.

He looked over at Krem. It was interesting, how Krem simply moved through events as they happened, letting them slide past him without hurting him. He was watching the pyre burn, and his thoughts were focused on a job well done – the Tal-Vashoth were defeated, the dead weren’t as many as there could have been, the pyre had been built before the light died which meant that no one had to hover over their dead for long. Or the dead of their enemies, which could get ugly – people weren’t kind to the corpses of their families’ killers. ‘Course, that was natural. But this was better. Now the people could mourn and move on, protect themselves from another assault, keep their neighbors from suffering a similar fate.

However, Tal-Ashkaari was hurting. She stood at the edge of the crowd of villagers, looking over them, studying their faces. She had never seen an attack like this before. Bandit raids, she had seen – it was not an abnormal occurrence on the road. And Tal-Vashoth she had also seen, very small groups, two or three who thought they could take on a caravan she was once part of. They were wrong. But this attempted destruction of a village, this terrible show of violence, it fed every old fear the Tamassrans put in her head of the grey ones who creep in the night, hungry and slathering for the flesh of good Qunari. But what the Sten said – why did she keep thinking of him as such? He was no Sten, not when he died – shook her. It must be recorded, this truth that came from him, that duty demanded death of those who did not deserve it. Who understood the Qun better, a man who refused that duty, or a man who followed it? And the lives of these villagers, she had to record what she could before the others decided to move on in their mysterious quest.

Cole slipped away from Dorian and wove through the mourning people, placing a trinket in a pocket here and there as he moved toward Tal-Ashkaari. When he reached her, he pulled out a small journal, and as she noticed him and gave him a nod, put the journal in her hand.

“What is this?”

“The girl who wrote this journal is gone. She and her grandmother were the only ones left. Now there’s no one – they died when they breathed in the smoke that filled their home.”

The Qunari propped her spear against her shoulder and opened the journal. She was filled with sadness, but purpose built up around the sadness, giving it structure, meaning, reason.

“I won’t let her story be forgotten,” she said, closing the journal and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

He slipped away from her and turned right into the path of the village seer. She was standing still, staring at him with hands folded inside her robes. Waiting for him. Her thoughts were muffled, not completely hidden but behind a veil that he would have to press against to see through. He decided to leave them – he was often called rude (particularly by Cassandra), but it was one thing to open himself to thoughts and another to dig for them.

The seer waved her arm in front of her. “Walk with me.”

He nodded and followed her away from the square and down a small path between houses untouched by the flames.

 “My friends call you Compassion,” she said as they walked. “An odd name to call a young man, I thought, when you and your companions came into the village. But watching you work today, I now see the truth of what they were telling me. The spirit who became a man. It’s much like an old folktale I know.”

“I know it, too.” He paused. “I know it doesn’t end well, but he isn’t me. I’m much more me than he was him in the story.”

“Mm. And the woman you travel with, the one who smells of copper? Also a surprise. A blood mage with finesse. Not to mention the Tevinters and Qunari working together to help us. You are quite the crew.” She stopped and turned to him. “Why does the young woman wish to meet Seer Hana?”

“Her former master told her to find Hana so she can find him.”

“Former master? Did he by chance give her a memory crystal?”

“Yes. But she doesn’t want to show it to anyone, just in case.”

“In case?”

“In case.”

The seer mulled this over, staring at Cole with a small frown.

“I was told expressly by Hana not to give away her whereabouts to anyone unless I was shown a memory crystal and given a specific name.”

“Eluard.”

“That… _is_ the name.” The seer closed her eyes for a moment, debating with whoever was currently within her. Then she opened her eyes and nodded. “Very well.”

He felt a small rush of images enter him – a map made of memory. He blinked and took a step back.

“I hope for my sake the woman is who Hana is waiting for,” the seer said as she walked away. “Else she will have my hands. She always threatened the young ones with taking their hands.”

Cole shook his head. The memories were quite clear, almost brilliantly so – not real memories, something constructed to be passed along. It felt solid in his mind. Did the spirits who made their homes around the Rivaini do this?

He decided it was something to think on later.

He ran to the barn, carefully opening and closing the door as silently as possible. He crept over to the pile of straw that Sinead had dropped into to sleep. She lay curled up in a small ball, uncovered, her boots still on. Her hair had shaken loose from the braid she normally slept in, and it covered her face and shoulders in black waves.

He kneeled next to her, gently pulling her hair back around her ear. Her brows were deeply furrowed, and her teeth were clenched behind a frown. Her dreams were dark and bloody, but she was far too deep within to jolt awake to escape them. He carefully unbuckled her dead arm from its brace and spread her hand open. Then he drew his knife and placed the blade against her palm. He hesitated a moment. Perhaps he should wait until she woke up to tell her – she did not like sharing memories like this. It was too much information at once, too much to experience someone else’s point of view directly.

But the darkness of her dreams worried him.

“Sorry,” he whispered as he made a cut. She did not stir, having felt no sensation.

He turned the knife on his own hand and slit it open, then held her injured hand in his and pushed the strange memory at her. She let out a long breath and shifted in her sleep. Her brow smoothed and her dreams altered – dark, but less so.

He smiled and took his hand away, wincing a little at the sting of his cut. 


	12. Seer Hana

Sinead awoke very early in the morning, a few hours before dawn. The barn was nearly pitch black, save for the slivers of moonlight sliding through the cracks in the slats.

She should have been angry when she realized she had a clear and absolute knowledge of how to find Seer Hana mapped into her mind and her dead hand was scabbed over with a bit of cloth tied around the cut. To have an idea actively placed in her mind should have unnerved her –  _had_  unnerved her in the past. It was one of the more insidious powers blood magic allowed, and there was a tiny sliver of herself who regretted showing Cole how she did it – not to mention something in his spirityness gave him the ability to pass things on to her with relative ease once blood was involved, like the opposite of his mind reading.

But while these reactions did flicker within her for a moment, for the most part she felt relief. They were no longer wandering Rivain waiting for a seer to take pity on them and tell them where to go. There was a destination, a purpose, a reason to wake up and keep moving. After the horrors and the pain she witnessed the day before, it was everything she needed. Enough to beat back the darkness and tell it she did not have time to deal with it at the moment.

She healed her cut, unknotting the bandage with a small smile. It made her heart swell a little to know how good Cole was getting at knowing exactly what he needed to do to help someone – quite a bit different from the spirit who kept making people forget until he had it just right.

"You're different too. You're more… _you_  than you used to let yourself be." Cole's voice was near her. She could barely make out the outline of his figure, leaning against the wall to her left. "You say the names now. Eluard, mother…"

"…whose name was Glidda," she whispered, continuing the list. "Norwin, who died because he felt too old to run from his books. And –" she stopped. Her tongue refused to have the last name on it.

"Rein. Who tried to take your mind. The first death." He paused. "You say  _most_  of the names now."

"Most is better than none." She sat up and finger combed the straw from her hair. "Come on, let's get things ready for the others before they wake. They all had very long days yesterday."

"So did you."

"And you. And yet, you'll pack things up for them to help?"

"Yes."

"Then so shall I."

* * *

Around dawn, the village seer and many of the villagers saw the crew off, some offering foodstuffs for their packs that Krem refused to take. They traveled east, on a small road that cut through the forests until the distant peaks of mountains became visible on the horizon.

For eight days they traveled, taking the horses on an easy gait, passing only two villages in that time and few fellow travelers. This was isolated country, where the forest grew thick. Parts of the road were overgrown with grass from lack of use.

As they traveled, Sinead noticed that the veil was thinner than in other parts of Rivain. It caught Dorian's attention as well.

"The one unpleasant part of stumbling into a land filled with deep arcane mystery is all the damned voices that start flittering around your head," he said, knocking against his temple. "And they never do listen when you ask them to keep it down."

"What is causing the thinness?" She held her hand up in front of her, feeling as if she could press against the veil if she tried hard enough. She rifled through her inner knowledge, trying to recall any major battles or elven stories about central Rivain.

"They came to convert those they lost to the Qun," Cole said from behind her. "They could not call them back. And so –"

"– slaughter," Tal-Ashkaari finished. She looked back at Sinead, shifting around in her horse. "Would any mass killing cause a thinness in the veil, or must it be associated with war?"

"Violent death is what causes it." Sinead shook her head to rid herself of the whispers from beyond the Veil. "Blood spilled with high emotions, increased pain. So yes, the slaughter of the Qunari would do it. I…didn't realize we were so near such a site."

Tal-Ashkaari nodded and flipped open her notebook as Sinead contemplated the many people in these forests who were killed in the name of Andraste – the people who refused to follow the Chantry and died in the name of the Qun. Not for the first time did she feel glad that she never felt the need to fight for the words of a prophet or a wise man.

"You risked your life for a set of hairpins," Cole said quietly in her ear.

"Good point," she murmured back. "I suppose we all have something foolish we believe in."

"Faith, not foolishness," he countered.

On the ninth day, Sinead led them off the road and onto a deer path. Krem was immediately wary.

"We've been lucky so far to only hit some bandits and come out fairly unscathed from a Tal-Vashoth attack," he said. "We go into the forests, and we're risking nature on our arses as well – wolves, bears, sylvan…"

Dorian cocked a brow. "Do sylvan count as natural?"

"Big damn trees that'll take a swing at you? They're basically one big metaphor for nature!"

"Well, it's the only way to get to Seer Hana," Sinead said. "So we either stop here and give up, or keep going."

"Oh, I'm not saying we don't continue." Krem held up his hands. "I'm saying, eyes and ears open, people. Last thing anyone wants is to come this far and get mauled to death."

They entered the woods, Cole and Sinead leading the others, and their path became difficult. Roots stuck up from the ground, slowing the horses as they carefully avoided stumbling upon them. The trees closed in around them, branches scratching at their arms and heads. Three times Sinead had to loosen a branch that got caught in her hair before she finally pulled up her hood, though the day was warm.

They traveled like this for over an hour, before Cole pulled his horse to a stop, making the others stop behind him.

"This…isn't right," he said, confused. He looked around the forest, peered down the path.

"Lost in the middle of the thin-veiled, ancient, foreboding forest? Must be Tuesday," Dorian quipped.

"We're not lost, we're exactly where we're supposed to be," Sinead said, equally confused. "Except, there's supposed to be an open clearing off to our right. We have to pass through it to get to Hana's dwelling. Are you sure the map is correct, Cole?"

"Yes. It's solid, steady, sure. And it feels more real than what we see. The forest feels  _wrong_." He slipped from the horse and took it by the reins. He ran his hand over the trees to the right, his fingerless gloves scraping against the bark as he leaned forward. And then, his hand moved  _through_  one of the trees.

"Oh, an illusion!" Dorian pushed his horse past Krem's, examining Cole's hand as it pierced the "tree." Quite a good one, too. Nice touch with the lichen. Anyone wandering this path would have to stumble into it to even know it was there."

"Let's see what's on the other side," Sinead said.

Cole nodded and walked forward, disappearing within the tree. The horse did not shy as he did so, following his lead. Sinead felt a shiver of magic pass around her, and came through the illusion into a wide, sunny clearing cut through by a large creek. A cozy little cottage stood off by the widest part of the creek, fenced in to hold a number of goats who naaaad at the strangers.

An old woman was leaning against the fence, her arms folded over each other, watching as the rest of the crew passed through the illusion.

"I need a name!" Her voice echoed across the clearing.

Sinead was taken aback. "A name? What –"

"Eluard," Cole called back.

"And I need a message."

He dug into Sinead's pack, then held up the memory crystal.

"Oh, good, I don't have to kill you. I'm Hana. Come in for tea!"

Seer Hana pushed off the fence and hobbled into the cottage.

Sinead leaned over and stole Cole's hat from his head, making him look up at her. "Next time, can you tell me that there's a secret code to answer before we enter the killer Seer's lair?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

* * *

Seer Hana's cottage was one open room filled furniture. There was no lack of place to sit, given the amount of stools and stuffed and wooden chairs and ottomans available. There were also a number of tables – one long one by the pantry, then a dozen or so of various sizes, some holding knickknacks, some holding books, most holding cats.

"How did she get all this out here," Krem murmured under his breath as he picked up a cat figurine and turned it in his hand.

"You know, I was going to say something pithy like 'magic,' but I wouldn't mind knowing that myself." Dorian pushed away a cat gently with his foot – the cat rallied and hopped on the hand rest of his chair.

Tal-Ashkaari took the cat into her arms and scratched it beneath its chin. The cat approved, hopping up on her shoulders and spreading out over them like a furry, purring scarf.

"It has been some time since I've seen my cat," she said wistfully. "I do hope the apprentices are caring for her."

Dorian looked incredulous. "Qunari own cats?"

"Well, she was actually the Center of Higher Learning's cat," Tal-Ashkaari amended. "She is an excellent mouser. Very efficient. Also affectionate. She did have a fondness for me."

"Because you always gave her slivers of fish." Cole sat on the floor, propped against a chair. A few cats were sitting around him, staring at him. One gingerly batted at his boot, then jumped away.

Seer Hana hobbled over to the crew with a wooden tray filled with cups and mugs of various shapes and sizes. "Tea's on." She passed out the tea, then shooed away a cat from a large pink lounge chair and lowered herself into it. "All right, then. So which one of you is Eluard's student?"

"That would be me." Sinead placed her large, bowl-like mug on a nearby table, unable to balance it in her hand without fear of spilling hot tea on the large tabby that had taken up residence in her lap. "How do you know Eluard?"

"Good question! I suppose I don't. When I knew him, he went by another name – Elis, it was. Now that was a long time ago. Eluard started maybe…thirty years ago or so. Runs through names like a horny sister through clerics." She cackled. "Old git. Is he still on E's, or has he finally moved on to another letter?"

"Still E's," Sinead said carefully. "I'm sorry, but exactly how long ago did you meet him?"

"Goodness, what was it…'round 8:85 or so? Yes, that's it. Few years after Nevarra tried to take the Free Marches, the sops. Traveled a lot back then – saw a lot of death in the Free Marches. Huh. Conquerors are nothing but blood mongers."

Sinead quickly did the math in her head. "The Eluard I knew was somewhere in his fifties at most. In 8:85 he would have been…ten, at the very most?" She brightened. "You knew him as a child?"

Seer Hana laughed heartily. "Oh, I see how it is! Eluard, you bastard. He hasn't told you a thing about a thing, has he?" She held out her hand. "Before I say a word, I'd best listen to his message. Wouldn't want to spoil anything before it's time."

Cole handed her the memory crystal. She nodded her thanks, took a pin from a cushion nearby, pricked her thumb and pressed it against the cube. "Hana."

The cube turned a bright yellow, and Eluard's figure appeared within.

"Hello, Hana. I imagine if you're hearing this message, Sinead has found her way to you. She's the last one, I'm afraid – I've not been very successful in the last few decades, unfortunately. It is vital that we get her to safety as soon as possible. Titus is on the move, and his little cult has grown exponentially since last we spoke. It's almost as if something is spurring these elves on – not that that's without reason, but it puts us in a precarious position. You need to send her on.

I assume Sinead is listening. She's not one to enjoy being kept in the dark. Not to mention, one of her companions is a spirit of a sort, and I've never known a spirit who was good at keeping a secret for long.

My girl, I hate to be so secretive. I'm sure it seems suspicious. But if you are not alone, it's the only way to be sure that no one in your party betrays your position. Take the memory crystal with you. Once Hana leads you to your next location, your blood and the word cramoisy will open another message.

Be quick, Hana. Titus is clearly using the Eluvian network. If he catches wind of you at all, it won't go well for you or Sinead."

The cube flickered back to blue. Hana's wrinkled features were drawn, worried.

"He was in a hurry when he recorded this. Never good. And you're the last!" Hana handed the crystal back to Cole. "I had hoped there never would be a last."

"Eluvian network," Sinead murmured. "Elves spurred on, the last…cramoisy!" She reddened.

Cole smiled. "So it  _is_  a real word."

"Excuse me." Tal-Ashkaari raised a hand, like student in a lecture hall. "You and this Eluard are frustratingly vague. It seems inefficient. What do you mean by last? Why is this Titus a figure to fear? Why do you laugh at the idea of knowing this man as a child?"

Hana snorted. "You had to have one of her kind in your entourage, did you?"

"I thought Rivaini were pretty tolerant of Qunari," Krem said, surprised.

"Not a Qunari. A bloody Tal-Ashkaari. Nosy buggers, all of them. Simple to answer questions, though, for the most part." She pointed at Sinead. "You're the last of Titus's line. That's important for reasons I'm not rightly sure of, but know that being the last isn't a good thing. Why? Because Titus has killed or used every person in his family line that he's come across, and not for the better. El's found more than one drained, butchered corpse in his years that was on of Titus's line."

"Andraste's tits," Krem muttered.

"You said it, boy. Man is on a mission, feels he has some kind of higher calling. If you're the last, he'll be dead set on getting you in his grubby hands."

Sinead stared at the old woman. "Are you telling me there's some sort of familial madman after my  _blood_?"

"Oh, much worse. He's very sane. Almost too sane. Zealots typically are."

"I'm rather glad we didn't stay in Antiva now, as per my advice," Dorian said. "If any of this is true, of course."

"Ah, a doubting ninny. So much in that noggin of yours that you can't help looking at every angle of a situation, eh?"

Dorian sipped at his tea sniffily. "Well, that was uncalled for."

Hana waved her hand in dismissal. "Now, as for the last question…" the old woman smiled. "Just how old did you say you thought Eluard was again?"

Sinead leaned forward in her chair, or as far forward as the cat in her lap would allow. "And how old do  _you_  think Eluard is?"

"Not too sure myself." Hana grinned. "He looked about fifty or so when I first met him."

* * *

Hana insisted that they finish their tea, then pressed them into action.

"No horses where you're going," she snapped, pointing at the mounts. "They'll not like the crossroads."

"The crossroads?" Sinead was alarmed. "You mean we're going to be using eluvians?"

Actually, she was more than alarmed. Her head was in a tizzy – blood mages and strangely old mages and eluvian networks and a family line that somehow cursed her with some sort of importance, and no one would tell her the full extent of what that meant.

"Yes, you'll be using eluvians. Only way to get 'cross the continent comfortably. Those ancient elves really were brilliant, weren't they? For a bunch of tossers."

Krem began unloading the horses, handing out packs and repacking goods from the saddle bags.

"But what will happen to the horses? They've started to like us. Well, they still don't like Sinead." Cole rubbed the nose of his mount.

"The horses don't like me?" This information on top of everything else made Sinead crack a bit. She began to giggle helplessly.

Hana gave her an appreciative look. "Never did like horses. Rotters, all of them. However, they'll be fine in my glade. I'll sell 'em to the next seer who comes 'round my way. Not to worry, lad. We Rivaini treat our horses like kings."

Then she cocked her head at Cole. "Wait a minute." She hobbled up to him and poked him in the chest. "Just what do you think you're doing, boy?"

"…saying goodbye to the horse?"

"Not that.  _This_." She waved a hand up and down Cole's body. "Spirits've been pestering me about you since you walked in my glade. Thought to ignore them – nosy, they can be. But they're right,  _this_  is unacceptable."

Cole looked down, placing his hands on his chest. "I chose this. This is who I am."

"Boy, are you listening? They care not about the choice. The choice is fine, it's the way you're going about it! You're clinging to the Fade like a momma's boy to the apron strings!"

"I am not." He sounded affronted. "I just…don't want to fall too fast into myself."

"Fall too fast? When do you plan on embracing humanity fully, when you've gone gray? Huh!" She prodded Cole in the chest again. "You'll always have the Fade about you. It's what you are. But you made a choice, and it's time to come to terms with it. This way is  _cowardly_."

"Hey, now." Krem looked up from rearranging his pack. "Cole's a lot of things, but cowardly isn't one of them."

"Then why is he still running around like a thing half made, eh?"

Sinead stepped in front of Hana, blocking her from Cole. "He's doing things his own way. Please don't berate him. He'll come to who he wants to be in his own time." She glanced back at Cole, who gave her a small smile.

"Well of course you support this nonsense. You're head's all full of mush for him. But I'll not stand for it – a choice has been made, and you can't live life by half-measures."

Hana elbowed Sinead aside and slapped her palm on Cole's chest. A blue light zipped up Cole's body, from toes to crown. He yelped and jumped back. Krem stood quickly and Sinead rushed to Cole's side.

Hana wiggled her fingers and nodded. "There we are. Much better."

"What did you do?" Sinead pulled at her mana and checked over Cole's body, looking into his blinking eyes, checking his pulse.

"She  _pushed_  me." He swayed on his feet, holding his head. "I feel…odd." He took a step forward and stumbled. Krem reached over and caught him by the arm.

Sinead turned on Hana, furious. "What did you do?"

"Calm down, girl. All I did was knock him off from his perch. He'll be fine as any other human, as soon as he gets his bearings."

"And how long until that happens?" Sinead snapped.

"A day at most. Must reorient, you know. He's been relying on the Fade for so long, his body's not used to functioning as it should. Right, is everyone ready?"

"Not our resident rogue," Dorian said as he shouldered his pack and took up his staff. "Thanks for that. I suppose we'll just have to make due if we run into anything that tries to kill us. And you." He nodded to Tal-Ashkaari. "Are we all sure she should continue on this journey with us?"

"I would ask that you not request that I leave quite yet." She was eyeing Cole as he leaned shakily against Krem like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream. "This is fascinating."

"No it's not," Sinead snapped. "Stay or don't, I don't care, but for Maker's sake, don't treat him like a shiny  _thing_."

Tal-Ashkaari lifted her brows. "I am sorry, I did not mean –"

"Yes, you did." Sinead turned on Hana. "Are you going to lead us to this eluvian, or not?"

"Huh. Temper, temper!"

Hana hobbled forward, Sinead marching after her, trying to contain her anger. The others followed behind, Krem slowed by Cole's stumbling.

They passed out of the glade, through the illusion and into the forest. Hana moved through the forest easily, moving faster than one would presume she could around trees and over roots. The others kept up as best they could, Krem physically lifting Cole over some obstacles to speed him along.

As they walked, Hana began reciting directions.

"When in the crossroads, remember – four forward, three to your left, mirror with two Fen-Harel statues framing it. Key's a hand on the glass and the thought of your favorite sweet. Don't ask, I don't get it, either. Don't worry about the sick feeling – crossroads was built for elves, and everyone else gets a nice, hungover feeling from them. Can't tell you where that mirror will bring you, it's been a long time since I've been through it. But it's the right mirror, I'm sure of it."

"Good." Sinead's voice was short. She was finished with this Seer Hana. "How much further is it?"

"Patience, lover girl. It's just around this boulder –" she stopped as they circled around a large boulder ringed by trees into a very small clearing. A large mirror was propped against the boulder, dark and unreflective.

And a gray-haired elf was sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror. He looked up and smiled as the group entered the clearing.

"Oh, bollocks," Hana muttered. "Titus."

"Seer Hana." The elf stood, picking up a staff and giving the Seer a small bow. "Well met."

"Wouldn't say the same to you, old man," Hana sneered. "Where in the void did you come from?"

"The eluvian network of course. I had an interesting conversation with the Inquisitor, in which she told me where my granddaughter was headed. I couldn't find you in the forest, which vexed me. So I've been waiting here for you to make an appearance."

"The Inquisitor told you where we were going?" Sinead shook her head. "I don't believe you."

"He took it from her." Cole's voice was shaky as he spoke. "He's not alone. The other in his head pulled it from her mind."

"Wait, he's an abomination?"

"That's always been an inaccurate description for those of us who let the spirits take us. Wouldn't you say so, Seer?" Titus smiled. "I must say, granddaughter, you've certainly surrounded yourself with some interesting companions."

Krem lowered Cole to the ground and drew his sword. "All right, listen, we don't want trouble. Just want to pass through the mirror and be on our way."

"Of course. The rest of you may go. First, I'd like to have a chat with Sinead."

Before anyone could move, he cast a spell, freezing everyone in place. Sinead tried to move, but the spell was heavy – like the weight of the world was bearing down on her. She would have been afraid, would have allowed the panic to take her. However, the anger that Hana had sparked through her treatment of Cole boiled over into a seething rage.

Titus approached her, examining her with approval.

"Well. Marcus's roll in the hay with the little Antivan girl certainly produced favorable results. You're one of the prettiest of my progeny. And powerful, too! It's no wonder you were taught blood magic. A pity Marcus didn't choose an elf maid – but no matter, the Elvhen within your blood is strong."

He stood in front of her. "My dear, I am sure the man you call Eluard has told you many tales about me. But there is only one truth – I work for the gods who were locked away by the Dread Wolf. The gods who my people call to with no answer. The spirit I share my form with sees this as the true abomination. The world sundered from its true existence, the highest beings imprisoned, while my people languish in ghettos and as slaves and as ridiculous lore-bound children prancing about the woods. Abominations on top of abominations.

"But we have a chance, you and I, to set things right. The blood within us both sings with power. We hail from a line of powerful mages, some of whom still walk the Fade in Uthenera. And every year that passes, my power grows. This can be true of you as well, if you allow it."

His eyes glowed for a moment, bright white. "You wish to speak."

Her mouth was released. She took a breath and licked her lips.

"What in the Maker's blessed sack are you going on about?" She snapped. "And stop looking at me as if I was a nice head of cattle."

Titus was taken aback. Then he laughed. "What a mouth! I was under the impression you were learned."

"Oh, I am." Sinead glowered at him. "But you're telling me I'm a pretty piece of meat while also going on about working for the Elvhen gods, which I'm sure are speaking to you through the spirit in your head."

"They are."

"Of  _course_  they are." She smirked. "I've also heard tales of you butchering some of our mutual family, which I may have been willing to give you the benefit of the doubt about if not for the fact that you've  _frozen my friends and me and this old hag to the ground_." She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. "So what are you about, Titus who claims to be my father's father? What do you want from me?"

"I never claimed to be your  _father's_  father," Titus said with a smile. "And what do I want? My dear, I want to raise Arlathan. It is my goal. It is the only goal worthy of any elf's effort."

Her eyes widened. "So you are mad. Raise Arlathan? With my help? Look at the ears – I may be a half-blood, or three fourths, or whatever, but I'm hardly elfy enough be a champion of Arlathan! Andraste's flames, the ancients that he Inquisitor ran into called her a shem –  _none_  of us are worthy."

The smile on Titus's face dropped into a furious frown. His eyes filled with fire as he slapped her. She was stunned by the blow, her eyes made to water.

"Not true," he snarled. "Not true! I am the closest to Elvhen who has existed in over a thousand years! They speak to me, they honor me, they need me!"

Sinead laughed with relief. "I knew Eluard was the one to trust. I knew it!" She looked at Titus with disgust. "So, what are you planning on doing with me? Slicing me up as a sacrifice? Draining me to use my blood to power whatever nonsense spell your cracked head has cooked up?"

Titus took a deep breath and regained his composure. "That would be a waste," he said pleasantly. "You are the last. You cannot remain so. We will have to remedy this before we move forward. Whether you chose to help me or not."

Now horror set in. Even her fury could not buoy her over such terrible implications.

"Now don't give me that look. I'm no monster. We will find someone suitable among my ranks." He placed a hand on her cheek. "And I'll make sure you are a happy and willing companion."

"That's enough of that!"

Sinead felt her limbs loosen and free from Titus's spell. As soon as her arms could move, she drew her knife and stabbed into her dead hand, pulling the blood to her, then pushing out. Titus stumbled back, not expecting the attack. She looked around – the others were also free, also drawing their weapons, save for Cole, who had trouble rising to his feet.

Hana stood, back straight, a head taller than she had been before. Her eyes glowed white-blue.

"Both of us can ask for help from the spirits, you old twit." Her voice boomed against the trees. "You think because you have a few years on me you can beat me in a fight?"

"That's what I think exactly," Titus said jovially. He swung his staff and unleashed a wave of power that knocked all but Hana to the ground.

Hana lifted her arms, and a great wind whipped up, stirring up debris and dust until Sinead could not see in front of her, or keep her eyes open for long for fear of the detritus blinding her. She felt a hand on her shoulder and a whisper in her ear.

"Move. We will lead you."

She scrambled to her feet, arm in front of her face, and walked at a slow pace, careful with her footing. The wind stole locks of her hair from her braid, and they lashed her face. The hand on her shoulder pressed her forward through the wind, then gave her a gentle shove, and she was free from the whirlwind and tumbling over old, cracked cobblestones.

She hit the ground hard with her knees and the heel of her hand, then fell over onto her back. The world had gone a pale gray, and she felt sick to her stomach. She blinked, thinking something was wrong with her sight, until she realized that she was within the crossroads. She sat up – an eluvian was nearby, shimmering in brilliant, opalescent colors.

She sheathed her knife and stood. As she did so, Dorian fell through the mirror and skidded over the ground, catching himself with his staff. Tal-Ashkaari followed, then Krem, his arm crooked through Cole's. They dropped to the ground in a tangle.

"You must run," the voice near her ear said. "Hana cannot hold him for long. Be safe, Grace."

She turned, but could see no one, spirit or otherwise.

"Okay, that was all sorts of bizarre," Krem said, sheathing his sword. "Let's go."

No one argued. Sinead ran forward, whispering to herself "four down, three over." What Hana didn't explain was how far between each other the eluvians could be. The first two were next to each other. The third was over a stone bridge without railings that hovered over a cloudy sky that had no end. She kept running, not looking down, only looking behind her to make sure the others were there.

They climbed a hill, passing the fourth mirror, and as Sinead turned left, in the distance, the mirror they had come from flashed. Titus came through, only it could not be Titus – whatever passed through the mirror was a head taller than Titus, bulkier, twisted. It swung its lolling head around, sighting them.

"Shit," Krem said. "How much further?"

Sinead did not answer. She ran, faster than she had ever run in her life. She allowed her panic to rule her, push her forward, ignoring her burning legs and lungs. Two mirrors passed over the strange rocky terrain, through a tall gothic arch of a doorway, and she skidded to a halt in front of a large eluvian. Fen'Harel howled on either side of the darkened mirror.

She pressed her hand against the mirror, but her mind went blank.

Behind them, there was a roar and a rumble. The thing that was Titus was crossing the stone bridge at an inhuman speed.

"Hurry it along, Lady Lotus!" Dorian snapped.

"Sweet things, favorite sweet things," she said frantically. "Who has a favorite sweet thing?"

"I like honey cakes," Tal-Vashoth said, her normally calm voice pitching high.

Sinead ran over to the Qunari, took her by the wrist, dragged her to the mirror, her spear clattering on the cobblestones, and pressed her palm against the glass.

"Think honey cakes!" she screamed into Tal-Ashkaari's stunned face, pulling herself up on her toes.

The mirror burst into light, and they fell through together, tumbling over onto a grassy knoll. The men followed quickly behind, Krem shoving Cole through before following. He then turned around and beat at the mirror with his sword, cutting into the frame.

"Stand back!" Sinead cried.

She pulled blood from the wound on her hand, wrapped it around her mana, took a great breath then threw her power at the mirror. It warped, the frame cracking, then burst apart, glass shattering across the knoll along with bits of the frame. The force of the explosion pushed everyone onto the ground.

There was a moment as everyone staggered to their feet, checking for injury. Sinead healed her hand and walked over to what was left of the base of the mirror. She kicked at the glass. Dorian stepped up beside her.

"That. Was also a neat trick," he said. "Also, I don't know if you realize this, but your grandfather is insane."

She looked up at him and started to laugh, or to cry, she was not sure which.

* * *

Krem decided that they had had enough excitement for the day, and they set up camp down the hill from the ruined Eluvian. It was then that the questions began.

"What I want to know is what he's really doing," Dorian said. "Raising Arlathan? That's a madman's idea. As is his claims of speaking to the Elven gods. Maybe he's bringing demons through the veil?"

"He was certainly possessed," Sinead said, doubtful. "But have you ever heard of a group of demons joining ranks to convince one man to bring the lot of them through? That would take far more cooperation than demons are capable of."

"Cole, you get a read on him?" Krem asked.

"Not more than what I said already." Cole was laying on one of the bed rolls, his hat next to him, opening and closing his hands above his head. "It was all muffled – all the sounds and colors and lights and sights. It's…getting better. Why are my hands feeling the air? I don't think they did that before."

"That damned seer. He sounds like an apprentice on aquae lucidius." Dorian leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of Cole's eyes.

Cole grabbed his hand and turned it around. "Such a sweet sound," he said in wonder.

Dorian shook him off. "How could she manage to make him stranger than before? If she pushed him further from the Fade I'd think it would have made him more grounded."

"Maybe it's like a concussion," Krem said. "She knocked him silly, like."

"I could have throttled her," Sinead said darkly. "Who is she to mess about with someone like that?"

"She was a wise woman." Tal-Ashkaari looked up from her notebook, which she was writing in energetically. "Wise women often believe they are the only ones worthy enough to mess about with people."

"Good point." Sinead sighed, dug in her pack and pulled out the memory crystal. "Well, we might as well find out where we are. And where we're going. No reason to doubt Eluard now, do you think?"

"Not after seeing that  _thing_ ," Krem said with a shudder.

"Or heard him going on about the Titus family breeding program," Dorian added.

Sinead gagged. "Maker, never mention that again." She slid her knife slightly out of its sheath, cut her thumb on the edge, and pressed it against the memory crystal. "Cramoisy."

"Red cloth!" Cole said, delighted.

"Yes, yes," Sinead muttered.

The crystal flickered a dark green.

"Sinead. You should be through the eluvian and in Nevarra now."

"Navarra!" Krem looked around the rolling landscape and slapped his forehead. "Of course!"

"You need to find your way to the capital," Eluard continued. "There you must find a Mortalitasi who goes by the name Gemeinhardt. Send him notice that Eluard's apprentice seeks his immediate counsel. That will get his notice. Give him the crystal. This little scavenger hunt is almost finished, my girl. Stay safe."

The crystal flickered back to blue.

"Nothing about where we are in Nevarra," Sinead said, frustrated. "Are we even near a road?"

"Something to figure out tomorrow morning." Krem lay back on the bedroll. "We're going to have to take turns with watch tonight, I think. Cole probably isn't up to it. You all right, Cole?"

There was no answer. Sinead looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his hands draped over his torso, his was face relaxed. Worried, she crawled over to him and pressed his chest.

"Cole?"

He breathed out deeply and shifted, his head falling to the side.

Sinead looked up, shocked. "He's  _asleep_."

Krem sat up. Dorian gave her a wide eyed stare.

"Well," he said. "That's new."


	13. Blood Soldiers

He was in the Fade. Only, that was impossible. Unless the mage Titus had made a sudden appearance and sucked them all into the Fade without his noticing.

But that could not be it. For one thing, he was the only one of the crew that he could see. For another, he felt no sense of foreboding or doom or anger. And finally, he was fairly sure that Titus would cause the Fade to manifest something more sinister than the Herald's Rest.

He was sitting at the bar, Cabot the bartender wiping out glasses in front of him. He looked up – the tavern faded away into a starry sky. Definitely the Fade.

Not Cabot thumped a mug in front of him. "So, are you gonna order or not?"

"Have you seen my friends?" He looked around the bar – it was empty, save for Maryden the bard, who was playing a tune he did not know. Well, a spirit who looked like Maryden – Maryden had much nicer thoughts.

"No one here but you, kid. Only and ever you. You've always been here."

Cole turned back and gave Not Cabot a look. "I want to ask them how I got here."

"I told you, you've always been here."

"Not how I got to the tavern. Why I'm in the Fade." He checked off events on his hands. "Forest, Seer Hana, her push, Titus, mirrors, exploding mirrors, camp, feeling the air…here. How did here happen?"

Not Cabot chuckled, something Cabot was not known to do. "You're not very good at this, are you kid?"

"Being in the Fade?"

"Dreaming! You're more lucid than most." Not Cabot leaned against the bar. "You a mage? A dreamer?"

"I'm not a mage. And I can't be dreaming. I don't sleep."

"Ha! You hear that, toots?" Not Cabot waved at Not Maryden. "He says he doesn't sleep!"

Not Maryden laughed heartily.

"Well, you're sleeping now. So, what'll it be, kid?"

Cole opened his mouth to argue that no, that was not right and he also did not drink, when he felt a shake.

And he opened his eyes.

And it was day, when he was sure, he was  _sure_ , that was still night.

Sinead was shaking him gently, leaning over him. Her hair was already in its crown, meaning that somehow he had missed preparations to leave camp.

He sat up, disoriented and unnerved. "What happened?"

"Calm down," Sinead soothed. She rubbed her hand along his shoulders. "You were, ah. Well, you were asleep. You slept for quite a while. Camp's all packed, save for your bedroll." She pointed at the end of the bedroll, where his boots were propped up tidily. "I hope you don't mind, but I had Krem take them off last night. I thought you'd be more comfortable."

"Wrong, wrong, wrong, all wrong." He rubbed his hand through his hair, grabbed his hat and put it on his head, then began putting on his boots. "If I become someone who sleeps, how can I be there to help when others dream? I  _don't_   _sleep_."

"Looks like you do now!" Dorian was lazing against his pack, picking at a dry roll. "I can't wait to see civilization again. Stale bread is growing old. Speaking of –" he dug into a pouch and tossed a roll at Cole, which he caught without looking up from his boots. "You might want to eat something. Just in case you do that now, too."

"I'm not hungry," Cole said staunchly.

But he realized as soon as he said it, to his dismay, that he was, indeed, hungry. He knew the sensation – the gnawing at the stomach. It was not the debilitating pain of the starving, but it was annoying and uncomfortable, and as he finished lacing up his boots the roll was beginning to look very appetizing.

Sinead caught him staring at the roll.

"It's okay, really," she said, again soothingly. "If you are hungry, I mean. Eating is completely normal."

"Not for me."

"Which wasn't really very normal," Dorian quipped. "Useful, but not normal!"

Ripples of annoyance came from Sinead as she flashed Dorian a warning look.

He relaxed a little, somewhat relieved. He could still feel, still hear, still him. Sort of.

But eating? For more than just to try a taste? He frowned at the roll.

"Why not a drink instead?" Sinead said brightly, taking her water skin from her pack, flipping off the lid and holding it to him.

He was thirsty. His mouth felt dry. And he realized it was more pressing than the hunger. Reluctantly he took the skin, placed the opening against his lips, and tipped it up. His mouth and throat filled with water, wetting away the dryness, cool and refreshing. It felt lovely. He kept swallowing until Sinead gently pulled away the skin.

"I don't want you to get sick," she explained apologetically. "If you're still thirsty, you can have more, but go slowly."

"Is it always like that?" He was surprised. He had felt the satisfaction from others of being fed or having drink after a fast, but it was something else to experience it for himself.

Sinead smiled. "More or less. Eating is similar." He took a large bite of the roll, and her smile switched to a look of alarm. "Eat slowly,  _please_. I don't want you to choke."

Dorian let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, Maker. This is going to be  _fun_."

The roll was disappointing. It tasted of nothing, and he immediately felt thirsty again. But the hunger did lessen. Then it slowly dawned on him that he would have to do this again later, the eating. And the drinking. Even if the food was unpleasant, or the water was dirty, or there was someone else more hungry nearby who needed the food far more than he. Hunger and thirst was stilled, but never cured.

And then he remembered what happened to food once it passed through a body.

He dropped the roll and stood quickly. "I'm not hungry anymore," he said, rolling up the bedroll. "I still feel the Fade, still feel the feelings around me. Maybe it wasn't permanent."

Sinead gave him a pitying look, and felt a wave of sympathy from her, which made his heart sink. It meant she was going to try to help him – no, worse, it meant that he  _needed_  help. He never liked being the one who needed help, particularly about something so ridiculous. The Depth was one thing – this was something else.  _Is this embarrassment?_  He wondered. He hoped not – it was an unpleasant sensation that made his skin prickle.

She opened her mouth to speak, something he both wished she would not do and rather hoped she would, which was very confusing, but just then Krem and Tal-Ashkaari jogged down the hill that the eluvian once stood upon.

"Great news," Krem said, panting. "We're not far from a number of settlements. Closest one's west across a few fields, and I'm pretty sure it's next to a road. We can head that way, get our bearings, and figure out where to go from there."

This news put everyone in good spirits. Packs were shouldered, and they headed west.

As they walked and the sun got higher, Cole began to feel warm. Everything felt warm. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and unbuttoned his hunter coat. The air was tickly. Every other breath he took resulted in a sneeze, and his mouth kept going dry. His throat, too, though it was more like someone had scratched it raw. He kept asking Sinead for her water skin, to the point that she insisted he carry it. Between the heat and the sneezing and the dry and scratchy throat, he drained the skin before they were halfway to the settlement.

Sinead's looks were no longer pitying. She was sizing him up. Taking stock.

"Krem, Cole needs your water," she said shortly, taking Krem's skin from his pack without another word and handing it to Cole. "Keep drinking if you're thirsty."

"Thank you." He blinked, surprised. His voice had a rasp in it that was certainly not normal. Another result of being pushed headlong into his humanity? Varric had a raspy voice. But then, why was his voice normal this morning?

Also, why did his thoughts feel so jumbled? They were jumbled yesterday, but this was different – he felt like his senses were dulled, his ears and nose in particular. And there was a heavy sensation throughout the front of his face, like something was sitting against his eyes.

And why was it so  _warm_?

He had finished Krem's skin by the time they reached the settlement, about midday, and still he was thirsty. The settlement was a small village that had grown around a large crossroads inn. Krem led them into the inn's tavern, sat them down and went off to have a discussion with the barkeep.

As soon as they were sitting, Sinead was on Cole, unbuckling his knives and tossing them on the table, and removing his hat. "Take off your coat."

Tal-Ashkaari looked between the two of them. "Why are you undressing him?"

"Yes, can't we have our midday meal first?" Dorian said.

"Hush," Sinead said, not in the mood for jokes.

Cole complied with her request, surprised at how tired simply taking off his coat made him feel. She placed an ear against his back and had him breathe in and out, then felt his forehead and made him open his mouth wide for her as she sparked a small light in her hand.

"Just as I thought." She flicked out the light and started to dig in her pack. "He's sick."

"Sick? With what? And how?" Dorian was flabbergasted. "We haven't been near anyone with a sickness in weeks."

"I'm not sure how. For all I know, it was squatting in him and the power from the Fade was keeping it at bay." She pulled out her herbal kit and started rooting around it while thinking dark thoughts about Seer Hana. "As for what, I'm thinking it's just a cold. But a nasty one – his throat's all red."

"Can you not simply heal him?" Tal-Ashkaari asked.

"Magic's not quite so good with disease, I'm afraid," Dorian said. "You can heal the damage it does, and sometimes that's enough after the disease has settled in. But for some reason, sometimes it just keeps coming back. It's why things like the Blue Death and the Wasting Sickness still plagues us."

"Elfroot and embrium will help, particularly with the cough." Sinead removed a few packets from her kit. "I'll go ask for hot water."

"But I don't have a cough," Cole said. Sinead gave him a look. "Oh. Yet. I don't have a cough  _yet_."

She left the table to look for a serving girl while Krem returned.

"News keeps getting better and better," he said. "We're only about half a day away from Nevarra's capital by stage coach. Which, lucky us, passes by every morning. We buy passage on the coach, we're in Nevarra's capital by midday meal tomorrow. Sound good?" He looked around the table, then noticed Cole's flushed face. "Okay, why do you look like death? More than usual, I mean?"

Sinead came back with a mug of hot tea and set it down in front of Cole. "Let that steep for a bit, then drink every drop. I put some honey in it, but it's likely to be bitter."

Krem leaned over the table. "What's going on?"

"Cole's sick." Tal-Ashkaari flipped open her notebook. "Fascinating." She caught a glare from Sinead. "I mean, inter – ah, something that is…worthy of note."

"He's sick? When did this happen? Just now?"

"It's been brewing all morning," Sinead said. "Drink the tea, Cole." He did. He grimaced. It was terrible – his tongue wanted to curl up and never taste again. "He was pale when he woke up, paler than usual. I thought it was just residual effects from yesterday…"

Cole closed his eyes and pressed the mug against his forehead. His head was beginning to ache.

"…get a room? He needs to lie down." Cole caught the end of Sinead's speech and opened his eyes.

"I already slept today," he said. "I don't think I need to again."

"Maybe you should lie down and let your body figure that out," Krem said gently. "I'll get us some rooms."

The innkeeper was happy to provide the crew with quarters for the night at such an early hour in the day. He threw in meals at a discount, and one of the servers brought mugs of ale and bowls of a thick stew to the table. Sinead pulled Cole's mug away and asked for water for him, both hot and cold. Cole eyed the stew. He had no desire to eat – the hunger from that morning was gone. But Sinead urged him to take a few bites between sips of bitter tea and gulps of water.

After midday meal, Sinead helped him carry his things upstairs to the room he was to share with Dorian and Krem – he felt strangely tired, like every limb had a weight on the end of it. In the room, she had him take off his tunic and boots and listened to his back and his chest.

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't like how it sounds. And you're warmer than before. May be the tea, though." She rubbed something minty on his chest that made him sneeze and closed the shutters to keep out the light. "Try to rest," she said at the doorway. "I'll check on you in a few hours."

As she closed the door, he muttered, "but I don't think I need to sleep again yet."

However, closing his eyes felt wonderful. He decided to keep them closed – even if he did not sleep, it felt good to not look at anything. The pressure around his eyes made looking into a chore.

Then to his annoyance, he was in the Fade again. This time he was at the White Spire, sitting in the library and watching the mages as they studied. The mages ignored him – or rather, they could not see him, because he was a ghost.

"A spirit," he corrected. "And this is the Fade. Is this what it is to dream? Are they all just memories relived?"

"Not always." A spirit who had taken on a very good likeness of Rhys sat next to him. "Sometimes the spirits like to tell grand stories from other memories they know. Sometimes it's a jumble – the wisps get confused and start making mashed potato ponds and sour cream rain. Sometimes the demons sneak in and pull at fears."

A cool wind blew through the library. Cole shivered and crossed his arms. "Can you make it warmer?"

"Oh, physical sensations? That's not us." Rhys laughed. "If you're cold here, you must be cold there. Now, how about a game of chess? It's been a while since we've played."

"I was never very good," Cole replied, his voice shaking with him. "The pieces kept talking to me."

"Well, you were the only one in the Tower willing to listen to them!"

"I will play." Cole rubbed his arms, shaking violently. "I just…need to make it warmer."

"Cole!"

He snapped awake. He was still shaking, holding himself as he shivered. The room was lit with a few of Sinead's spherical lanterns. He blinked, adjusting to the light. Everything felt muddled, and his body ached to his bones. He coughed, which made his chest burn. Sinead was kneeling next to the bed, loosening his shirt. He could feel Krem and Dorian in the room as well, though he did not have the energy to turn his head to see them.

Sinead pressed a hand on his head. It felt gloriously cool, which was odd – he was so very cold. Why would her cool hand feel so nice against his head?

"He's burning up." She was worried. Her worry flowed into him. He tried to say something to reassure her, but all that came forth from his lips was another cough and a soft groan. "This is no cold. We need more blankets, more tea, more water."

"If it's not a cold, what is it?" Dorian asked.

"Grippe."

"Andraste's tits," Krem muttered as he tossed Sinead the blankets from his and Dorian's beds. Sinead quickly wrapped them around Cole. He was relieved at the warmth at first, until the sweating began. "There's no way the stage coach will let us on if they know one of us has grippe."

"Then we don't tell them," Dorian said. "It'll be early. We'll bundle Cole up, say he had a bit too much to drink, pop him inside, and put him to sleep. Easy."

Krem sighed. "That'll have to do. I want to get as far away from that damned mirror as possible."

"I need you to drink this." Sinead helped Cole sit up and held a bowl to his lips. It was a broth of some sort, warm and buttery. The steam felt good to breath in, the liquid soothing on his throat.

"What is grippe?" He whispered. His throat screamed at him for speaking even these soft words.

Sinead said nothing, exchanging the bowl for a mug of the bitter tea. But the thoughts came as he sipped the tea, memories of her time in the Gallows' surgery as a healer after Kirkwall erupted. People lying listless on pallets, languidly reaching for her as she passed them by, their breathing labored.

"Oh."

"Don't worry, grippe is unpleasant but plenty survivable for most," she said, helping him lay back down. "Sleep is the best cure. Close your eyes." She pressed her lovely cool hand against his forehead again.

And again he was in the Fade. Only now the Fade manifested a large, open field full of flowers that were colored far too brightly – so bright it hurt his eyes. And nugs were prancing through those flowers singing old Dwarven songs while drinking from a pond filled with mashed potatoes.

Cole shook his head, pressing against his temples.

"I think I understand your problem." The Not Rhys spirit was standing next to him, arm around his shoulders. "Your body's not used to illness. Blood soldiers aren't working."

"Blood soldiers?"

Cole held up his hands, and it was as if he could see through them, or into them, see every particle that made up his body. It made him dizzy. Down and down in the smallest of sizes tiny white Templars battled back and forth with demons – but the Templars who fought were few. Most were listless, waving their swords around aimlessly, or sitting still as the demons tore their limbs from their bodies.

Cole looked away from the massacre, looked up at the sky, which now rippled in waves of color.

"You see? Tell your healer she needs to attend to your soldiers," Not Rhys said, patting Cole's shoulder.

Cole closed his eyes, or tried to close his eyes, but his eyes kept seeing. "Why is everything so strange?"

"Probably the fever. Human brains go strange when they overheat."

"Who are you?" Cole slipped away from Not Rhys. "You're very helpful."

"I try to be." Not Rhys beamed. "So many people come through this inn, all of them mulling over old worries or troubles. I dig around in their minds a bit, help them dream of answers to their questions."

"Epiphany."

"Oh, what a good word! I like that word." Not Rhys smiled not at all like Rhys. "I think I'll keep it."

The Fade began to rumble and break away in chunks. Rhys looked around and opened an umbrella that he had not been holding before.

"It was nice meeting you, Compassion turned human. Remember the blood soldiers!"

He opened his eyes. Everything was wrong, too bright, too hot, too strange. A many tentacled creature was holding him up, forcing a sack over his head. He struggled with the creature, reached for the knives on his back, only they weren't there.

"Who stole them?" He cried, shoving the creature away and ripping the sack from his head. "Where are they? What have you done to my friends?"

"Calm down," a voice soothed.

A creature made of azure light approached him, a female form with wavy silver hair that brushed the floor. She reached out and touched his head. Coolness rushed through him, so quickly that he began to shiver, his teeth chattering. But the visions dissipated as his body cooled, the azure creature becoming Sinead, the tentacled monster becoming Krem, and the sack becoming his tunic.

"I don't understand." Sinead was distressed, confused. "His fever was dangerously high – brain-cooking heat. The Embrium should have kept his fever lower than this. Why isn't it working?"

"Blood soldiers," Cole said through chattering teeth.

"The hallucinations are a serious concern." Dorian was behind Sinead, waves of worry washing out from him. Which worried Cole – Dorian only allowed himself to worry when he thought it was important. "He kept saying the oddest things in his sleep – something about epiphanies and potatoes."

"Maybe we should stay here," Krem said, once again helping a more complacent Cole into his tunic. "It's only a half-day journey, but if he's this bad, moving him might be a bad idea."

Sinead shook her head. "I'm not stocked with nearly enough herbs to deal with this illness. We need to get him to the capital."

Krem finished dressing Cole with Sinead's help. Cole moved his arms and legs when requested, though his whole body felt as if it was underwater. Dorian and Krem walked him down the stairs and out of the inn to a large sign with a coach and four painted on it. Tal-Ashkaari was sitting on a bench by the sign. She looked up, saw Cole's state, and stood so that the men could sit in her place.

The movement had made him warm. And the clothes. Everything was warm. He could feel the heat returning, spreading through him, making the sweat bead around his hairline and trickle down his back. Then Sinead was there, holding a water skin to his lips, making him drink, touching the back of his neck and cooling him with her magic.

He dozed as the sun rose over the horizon, waking fully when the stage coach arrived and Dorian and Sinead quickly bundled him inside while Krem discussed pricing with the coachman and Tal-Ashkaari climbed to the upper level.

"She doesn't like small spaces," Cole explained to no one. His voice was soft, scraping. "Her horns got her stuck in a tunnel when she was a child. That was when she decided that she'd saw them off when she grew up."

"That sounds dreadful." Sinead wiped the sweat from his head with a cloth and held the water skin to his lips. "I need you to drink more for me, please."

The day passed quickly. Or slowly. He could not tell. He'd doze, so lightly that he barely brushed the Fade, then a jolt would wake him, or Sinead would wake him demanding that he drink. Then he'd lean against the side of the coach and close his eyes, trying to straighten his thoughts.

But his thoughts remained an intangible tangle, the important and unimportant melding together into a mess. The others' thoughts melted into his own, memories of disobeying the Tamas by reading under the covers and a boyish prank in the circle that involved disappearing ink and sitting by father watching him stitch with a steady hand and showing mother a small spell, a flower made of ice that incited delight. He tried to close them off – he could not help, not now, not when his own mind was loose and dizzy. But the fever pressed against him, forcing him to take everything in. And as they passed through the gates of the capital city, the wailing and begging and madness and despair of thousands of prisoners joined the thoughts of his companions.

He pressed his hands over his ears. "How long will we be near the dungeons?"

"Dungeons?" Sinead looked at Dorian and Krem, who both shrugged.

"I don't think Nevarra has any extensive dungeons," Dorian said. "All that space is needed for crypts."

"I can hear them crying…" Cole stopped. It was tiring to explain.

They were dropped off in front of a very nice hotel that Dorian had insisted the coachman to take them to.

"Worry not, fearless leader, this particular stay will be coming from my own purse," Dorian said when Krem protested. "I'm rather tired of sleeping on the ground or checking my bedding for lice. We could all use some clean sheets in our lives."

After some discussions with the hotel staff, Cole was led up a few flights of stairs and into one of the sleeping quarters of a suite. He paid little attention to his surroundings – thoughts and feelings from the hotel guests flooded his mind with those from his companions and the wails of the prisoners, making it difficult to focus on anything. He sighed in relief when they stripped him of everything but his trousers and shirt and laid him down in a large, soft bed and covered him with a down quilt.

Sinead placed a sustained cooling spell on him and kissed his brow. "Rest. I'll bring you something to eat soon."

She closed the door, leaving him in darkness, drifting again into dreams…

…into the Fade once more. It was becoming almost irritating, this back and forth between reality and Fade. At least there were no more mashed potato pools. In fact, it was empty. Or, it seemed empty – flat and blue in every direction. He was on a sea, a sea mirrored by the sky. He looked down, and found himself sitting on a raft that was too small for him to stretch out his legs.

His breath became short. He could feel the depth below him, beckoning to him, singing a soothing song of a swift, suffocating end. The smooth surface of the water broke apart in choppy waves, splashing against him, soaking him through, rocking the raft until he was knocked into the water. He burst through the surface and clung to the flimsy piece of wood as the sky grew dark and the waves became enormous, rising up and slapping him down, forcing water into his throat and lungs, making it so hard to breathe, he could not catch his breath between the waves, could not –

"Keep him upright!"

Sinead's voice broke through the dream. He was awake, but still every breath was a struggle, a fight with the air.

Krem held him in a sitting position as Sinead stirred a pot in the fireplace and scooped a ladleful of liquid into a bowl. She ran to the bed and stuck the bowl under his nose. The vapors penetrated the fluid in his lungs. He choked, then coughed. She quickly set down the bowl and held up a bucket as he coughed and retched up greens and reds. His lungs felt like they had been shredded by knives. He gasped for breath as she placed a hand on his chest and healed the damage done by the liquid. Finally, his breathing was clear. He gulped at the air, held it in his chest like an old friend.

"You can lay him down now."

Krem lowered him to his sweat-soaked pillow. He looked over the room with aching eyes, watched the shadows from the fireplace flicker against the furniture, and noticed Dorian sitting in one of the chairs, flipping through a book.

"You can't do that again," Dorian said. "The scar tissue from multiple healings would kill him as much as the phlegmy lungs."

"I know. It was a desperate situation. We'll have to come up with something else." Sinead's braid was down, and she was digging her fingers into the crown of her hair. "How can the illness have gone pneumatic? The elfroot should have fought against that. What am I missing, for Maker's sake?"

"Blood soldiers."

They turned and looked at Cole. They needed answers. But his head was a jumble, the voices were so loud, breathing was so nice, everything felt so hot, so cold, so achy, so exhausting.

"Templars fighting demons." He sighed and closed his eyes.

"That's the second time he's mentioned 'blood soldiers'." Dorian's concern coated his words, covered his thoughts. "He may speak in riddles, but he always knows what he means."

"I caught that as well. He knows something we don't." Sinead paused, her head spinning with ideas, theories, wonders, worry. "I could write letters to a few circles, ask them if they know of any property in blood that –"

"Nope, no way." Krem cut her off. "No one can know where you are, or else that Titus bastard will be knocking on our door on top of this mess."

"If I don't, Cole could –" Sinead stopped. She did not want to say the words. They stuck to her tongue like the names used to.

"If you do, all of us could bite it," Krem replied. "This is a bad turn, but I've seen people pull out of worse. Don't give up on Cole yet."

Despite the concern and the worry and the fear in the room, Cole drifted away, his head refusing to stay conscious. He found himself, once more, in the Fade.

On the raft.

On the sea.

With the depth whispering below.

He covered his head with his hands, waiting for the waves to come.

* * *

That was the last full day he could piece together in his mind, beginning, middle, end, for some time. There were no days anymore, only fragments of memory, both in reality and in the Fade, hot and cold and painful.

Memories of struggling to swim to the surface of the sea, to escape the depth, to breathe fresh air before fire burned in his chest, a flash of pain that would wake him to a vision of Sinead leaning over him, hand on his chest, eyes red from blood magic.

"Burning it away," she said the first time this happened, noticing his confusion. "I'm sorry that it hurts."

He did not mind the pain – breathing was worth the pain.

There was a memory of someone holding him upright while someone else took a set of shears to his head.

"All that hair's just soaking up the sweat and passing it to his pillow. Hopefully it will help –" He did not remember what it would help with.

There were moments that blended together, being wakened for broth or water or tea or to have his bedding changed while he was propped in a chair with a blanket, or to be helped visiting the privy – a memory he may have been embarrassed about or even fascinated with given its newness, if not for his fatigue. There was the struggle with the depth, repeated again and again, a fight to stay afloat.

There were moments, short moments, of lucidity – when the cooling spell was just right and his fever was low and he had been fed and his head could block out most of the noisy thoughts around him and he was not so tired that he fell back into sleep and the depth that waited in his dreams. Those moments were the clearest in his memory: a few hours when listened to Sinead reading from a book of old Ferelden epic poems. A time when he watched Dorian, Sinead and Tal-Ashkaari flip through a pile of books that had grown on the short-legged table in the corner of the room, looking for answers to what ailed him. A moment when he woke without needing aid, and saw Krem keeping watch on him while Sinead slept in one of the chairs.

And a time, near the end, when he recognized that all of this was for naught – all the struggling and pain and worry and fear. He had dreamed again of the depth, only this time he did not struggle. This time he held out his arms and allowed himself to sink, watching the rippling light above fade away as the depth accepted him. He nearly cried with relief – why did he fight so hard?

Then the fiery pain, and a gasp of breath, and he was awake.

Sinead placed a hand on his cheek, her large eyes wide with dread. "Please say something."

"Something."

Relief filled her. She lowered her head to his chest. "You stopped breathing. I don't know for how long. I was checking on the soup, they hadn't delivered the soup yet, and – oh, Maker, I'm so sorry."

She was so tired. Drained and weary. How many days had she been awake? How many hours had she slept? All to help his failing body falter on.

Her exhaustion exhausted him in turn. He raised a hand and placed it on her head, and that required nearly too much effort. Everything was difficult. Even involuntary actions like blinking and seeing were demanding. He recognized the feeling – had helped people with the feeling die. It was not the pain, it was the fatigue that caught many people in the end.

"I'm dying." Saying the words made it no more real, but recognizing the truth felt good – like a release.

Sinead lifted her head. She clenched his bedding in her fist. "I know. I'm trying everything I know, I'm – nothing is working. Please, tell me why it's not  _working_."

"You don't have to try anymore." He patted her and smiled a small smile. So much work for such little things. But little things were important. "It's okay. The depth isn't so bad. Just…not life."

She was trying very hard not to cry. Which meant she was getting angry. Her anger tired him. He sighed and closed his eyes.

"You promised you wouldn't die."

"I promised to try." He cracked open one eye. "I can't keep that promise forever."

"But it's too soon!" she snapped. "You haven't even lived yet!"

"I have. I've helped. It's…enough."

"No, I am not having this conversation." She lifted from the bed and started pacing. "Tell me again about the blood soldiers."

"Sinead…"

"We've asked and asked, but it's nearly always fevered nonsense. Please, while your mind is clear!"

Her hurt was too much for him. He had to help. This last time, before the depth took him. He held up his hand.

"Soldiers in the blood. Like Templars guarding against demons. Too small to see…" He lowered his hand again. Everything was so hard. "Mine don't want to work. They let the demons eat them."

There was a spark in Sinead. A look in her eyes, a wave of an idea. She ran from the room and returned a number of minutes later, minutes counted in long breaths, dragging Tal-Ashkaari by the arm. The Qunari had her spear with her.

"Please explain more fully." Tal-Ashkaari looked from Cole to Sinead. "How am I to help with a spell? Why do I need my spear?"

"I'm about to do some very, very bloody blood magic." Sinead unbuckled her dead arm's brace, then unlaced her tunic and ungracefully removed it. "Probably some of the strongest blood magic I've done in a while. Remember this for your notes – most of the blood magic I do pulls only from the life force in the blood. It's powerful, but it can only do so much." She pulled her dead arm from its sleeve and out through the neck hole and pushed her shirt down low, to the crest of her breasts. "There are two ways to gain more power from blood: more blood, of course. And pain."

Cole opened his eyes wide. He tried to sit up, but his body was too weak. "No, you can't," he pleaded.

Tal-Ashkaari tightened the grip on her spear. "Why is he responding like this?"

"Because the last time I used pain and blood magic together, I nearly killed myself." Sinead waved her hand in dismissal of Tal-Ashkaari's distressed look. "Don't worry, I was in far more pain than what I am about to be in. Wasn't in my right mind. But it was  _very_  effective."

"I still do not understand my part in this."

"Blood magic attracts demons. Heavy blood magic attracts very strong demons." She kneeled on the floor next to Cole's bed. "Strong demons mean there's a chance I'll be taken. I can't do this without someone guarding against a possible abomination. Would you kill me if that happened?"

"Absolutely."

"That's what I thought." She grinned up at the Qunari. "I think Krem and Dorian like me too much – they'd hesitate. Can't risk that. As the Orlesians say, en garde, madam."

"This is madness." It was the only protest Tal-Ashkaari had to the request. She flipped her spear forward, aimed at Sinead's throat. "I am ready."

"Okay." Sinead drew her knife and placed it under her right shoulder. "Okay."

"Please don't do this," Cole whispered.

Sinead's hand trembled, but her face hardened. "I must."

She drew her hand back and stabbed herself below the collar bone with as much force as she could. She let out a cry of pain and a few vocal pants as blood began to run from the wound. She released the knife and took a shuddering breath. She became still, but he could feel her pain and the power that she drew from it.

Tal-Ashkaari was aghast, her lavender skin a shade lighter than usual. "Why are you doing this?"

"Perception." Sinead's voice was calm, distant. "The more power, the stronger my perception. Blood lets me see many things I'm blind to with mana alone. Even a simple act of blood magic isn't enough to see everything. And what I want to see –" she held her hand in front of her, "– is invisible."

She went into herself. He could feel her sinking into the blood, examining veins and capillaries, watching the blood move through the body. She went further – it was like the depth, falling into smaller and smaller worlds.

"Oh!" Her cry was one of wonder. She spoke fast. "It's unbelievable. Hard to explain. Something for your notebooks. Like – how to explain? Tiny particles – creatures? Some that are part of me – no,  _are_  me. Some that are not, so very small they are. They move so swiftly through the veins – there are little ones that mark the interlopers – with a scent of some sort? I'm not sure, but they are marked, and then great masses come and consume –" She looked at Cole. "Templars and demons."

Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. "I did not understand any of that."

"I'm not sure I understand it completely either. But I think I know what I must do." She closed her eyes and twisted the knife in her shoulder with a shudder. When she opened her eyes, they were bright red. She placed her hand on Cole's chest and dove into him, then nearly reeled back. "Maker's breath, he's overrun. The interlopers are – I can't count. Millions upon millions…and the Templars doing nothing. Nothing! Typical." She poured a jolt of power into him that made him jerk. "Sorry. I just wanted to get them moving. Ha! There they are, ahaha, going to work!"

Cole was not listening. He could feel the demons approaching, attracted by the blood and the pain. They pressed against the veil, hungrily watching Sinead work.

"They're here."

Tal-Ashkaari looked around. "Who's here?"

"Yes, I feel them, too," Sinead said impatiently. "Your soldiers are still being slaughtered. So many…I don't think it's enough at this point. I think I need to…" she squared her chin and twisted the knife a full turn with a groan.

The demons were delighted by this. More joined the group until a small horde circled them. Sinead ignored them, pressing her power into Cole.

He gasped. The demons reached out to Sinead, clawing at her through the veil. "What are you doing?"

"I need to clear your blood." She said it sternly, her face contorted in concentration. "I need to mark the interlopers."

"Millions upon millions?"

"Yes." Her pupils were gone, stolen away by the red.

"It's too much. Too much."

The demons' whispering became a din, a howl of desire and rage and pride.

"Damn it, leave me alone! I'm busy!" Sinead sent a wave of power in all directions. The demons were knocked back, surprised.

There was a loud thump in another room that became the thumping of someone running. Dorian slammed open the door.

"What in Andraste's loving bosom was that?" He took in the scene – Tal-Ashkaari holding the spear at Sinead, Sinead's skin lined in red streaks, her knife in her shoulder, Cole's desperate look of worry. "Vishante kaffas! What  _is_  this?"

"Heavy blood magic," Tal-Ashkaari explained.

"Yes, I noticed! Sinead, are you mad? Do you not hear the demons scrabbling at your mind?"

"I'm not deaf," Sinead snapped. "I've pushed them back for now. Now hush, I'm working."

"I…what did you say?" Dorian sunk into one of the chairs. "You pushed them back? From here into the Fade? You can do that?"

"I suppose so. And I have to do it again." She sent out another wave of power, again knocking the hissing demons back and chasing off some of the weaker demons. "Almost finished. So many…"

"There are demons here." Tal-Ashkaari's spear shook. "All around us?"

"You absolutely do not want to know how many." Dorian rubbed a hand over his face. "Maker, please protect my well-meaning, idiotic friend. I don't want to clean abomination off my clothes again."

"Got them!" Sinead laughed with glee. "It's not all of them, but it should be more than enough to knock them out!" She kissed Cole on the cheek. "I am very sorry. This is going to hurt. A lot."

Everything was fire. Heat, burning heat, and pain – so much more than before. His teeth clenched from it, his body stiffened in agony, he could not even cry out. There was no time. It was an instant, a flash, a blink that lasted an eternity.

Then it was over. He was dizzy, disoriented from the memory of the pain, the horrible, burning pain. He felt Sinead's hand slip away, felt her relief and her joy as she fell back on the floor. Tal-Ashkaari and Dorian moving to help her.

"Lay her flat," Dorian demanded. "I'll have to heal that bloody mess she's made of her shoulder. And you – I've never seen anyone more in need of a knock out." He placed his hand on Cole's head.

Then the darkness came, the blessed, uncomplicated darkness.


	14. In The Pink

He surfaced from sleep with no memories of dreams. His head was clear and quiet – the thoughts and memories of others were hidden behind their mental screens. The heat was gone, as was the closeness of the memory of the searing pain. He shuddered if he tried to think of it, but it was distant, something in the past.

He opened his eyes and sat up, opening and closing his hands. He felt…good. No, fantastic. Better than he’d felt in a very long time. Maybe even since he’d chosen to accept his humanity. He was not sure why his body felt so rested and balanced. Then he remembered Sinead falling to the floor, the power she had pushed into him as he burned.

_She gave up her health for mine._

He pulled off the bedclothes and jumped to the floor, opening himself to her thoughts. But all he heard were dreams – pleasant dreams in forest glades. He relaxed – she had not hurt herself. Well, not mortally, anyway.

He looked around the room, for the first time really taking in his surroundings. It was fancy – not as fancy as the hotel in Val Royeaux or the Winter Palace, but still far more lavish than the cozy inns and taverns they had stayed in up until Nevarra. Chairs with carved curlicues, tables with swooping, rounded feet, that sort of thing. 

He cracked open the door and peeked through. The outer room, a common room, was just as opulent - set up like a parlor of sorts, a large fireplace at one end with a long table framed with large chairs in front of it. Long windows were on the north and east walls, and the sun shone off every silver bevel and accent, making the room sparkle.

Dorian was reading in a low chair near the balcony windows. He looked up to the sound of Cole closing his room door behind him.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Dorian closed the book, stood and walked over to Cole, taking his chin by the hand and turning his head side to side. “Your fever’s gone. Eyes look clear. I’m no expert on these sorts of things, but I’d say you’re cured completely. One good night’s sleep after that madness our Lady Lotus pulls, and just like that, cured. Ha! How do you feel?”

“I feel…well.” Better than well. He was brimming with energy. He wanted to run long distances, jump up onto the rooves of the city. “Very well.”

“Well, you certainly don’t smell it. Or look it. Find a clean set of clothes – we’re going to the baths.”

Cole cocked his head. “Both of us?”

“Yes, both of us. You see, I – this is somewhat awkward, but – perhaps it’s better to show you.” Dorian dragged Cole back into his room, creating a few balls of light as he did so. “Now, typically I’d allow Krem to take care of this sort of thing, but, well, he doesn’t really have the _experience_ you need.” He pushed Cole in front of a floor length mirror set next to the wardrobe.

Cole blinked and raised his brows. The first thing he noticed was the light blond fur that covered his face. He brushed his knuckles over the rough, prickly hair.

“Oh, yes. That was a surprise to all of us,” Dorian said with a chuckle. “Congratulations, Cole, on becoming a man. All in one day, it seems. That Seer Hana did a number on you.”

“I –“ his surprise was quickly replaced with distress. “My hair!” He ran a hand through what was left of his locks – his hair was only two or three inches long all the way around his head, and cut away choppily.

“Ah, that. Sinead felt your hair was sopping up your sweat and leaving you with a chill.”

“I think I remember…” He pulled at a few strands moodily. “I liked my hair.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, give it a few months and you’re head will once again be crowned with a scruffy, unkempt mop. For now, we’ll get that cleaned up.”

Cole let his hand fall from his head. He stared at himself another moment, no longer surprised or distressed. More critical.

“I’m very pink,” he said finally.

“Probably a new extra-human coat. Like skin under a scab. Now come along, no more stalling. I’m looking forward to scrubbing off the last few days myself. Clothes are in the wardrobe.”

As Cole grabbed a set of trousers, shirt and tunic and stockings, he asked, “it’s only been a few days?”

“Well, since I took a decent bath, ye – oh! You mean, since we arrived in Nevarra? Oh no. It’s been almost two weeks. I can understand you not knowing. You were out of it for most of the time. Kept muttering about the Depth. Very eerie.”

Cole clutched the clothes to his chest. He felt the threads that bound Sinead to Titus. “Titus seeks, searching the eluvians for our scent. Why did we stay still for so long?”

Dorian gave him a sympathetic smile and took him by the shoulders as they left the suite for the open indoor walkway of the hotel. “I don’t know if you know this, but your lady friend is a tad stubborn. And by tad, I mean she threatened to lock herself in your room and melt the latch if Krem ever suggested moving to another location more than once. When told that we could simply break down the door, she said we could _try_. The look on her face made me less than inclined to test her.”

Cole shook his head as they descended the stairs. “She does not stop when she thinks she’s right.”

“Well, she wasn’t _wrong_. If we had moved you while you were having a breathing fit, things might not have gone well for you. And I rather like having you alive, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

He gave Dorian a small smile. “I don’t.”

Dorian patted him on the back and cleared his throat. “Yes, well. No more of that! Last thing we need is an overabundance of sentiment. Ah! Here we are.”

He pulled open one of a set of large, wooden doors with iron trim, and they entered a small lobby made of marble blocks. A bard in a dress that was less dress and more yellow-piece-of-fabric-draped-over-her-delicate-places strummed her lute in a far corner. A young woman stood behind a long counter, her bright red hair piled atop her head in rolling curls and wearing a white, flowing, sleeveless shift. She smiled at them.

“Two to bathe?”

“If you please,” Dorian said. “Private.”

The woman nodded and led them through a hallway, past an open room framed in wood lattice where women and men lounged in large, steaming pools. There was a lot of giggling echoing over the tiles.

“The baths at this hotel try to mimic the Tevinter experience of the Great Baths,” Dorian said under his breath. “It does so sloppily, of course. Not all of them double as brothels.”

The woman stopped at a door and faced them. She stepped up to Cole, smiling. “Are you sure you want this bath to be…unaccompanied?”

“Um.” She was very _round_. Her face, her hips, her breasts, which were fairly large – Cole wondered if they hurt her back. But she wasn’t thinking about backs. She was thinking about money, and under the money the very explicit things she would do for said money, in particular the things she would do to _him_ for said money, and in her opinion it would be a fun romp with a green lad. He flushed and felt warm in the most pleasant way.

“Yes, private,” Dorian said quickly.

“Your friend may disagree.”

“Ahah, my friend is not quite ready for accompanied attractions.” He opened the door and shoved Cole through. “Thank you for your help.”

“She was friendly,” Cole said brightly as Dorian entered the small, cubby-lined entry room.

“Oh, yes, very,” Dorian replied with a wry smile.

Stripped and wrapped in towels, they went into the bathing room. A pool of hot water sat in the center of the room, various oils and soaps laid out on a stone ledge that hung over the pool. A copper tub stood in one corner of the room, condensation dappling its surface.

“Now, Tevinter baths are a thing of ritual,” Dorian said, approaching the soap ledge. “One does not simply hop in and scrub down like a boy in a watering hole. You soak in oil, then sit in the bath until your hands are wrinkled. Soap up, rinse off, and it’s a dip in the cold bath. That’s the copper tub. It’s more than a cleansing experience, it’s cathartic – like going to confession.”

Cole eyed the soaps, picking one up and smelling it. He wrinkled his nose.

“It smells like sweat. And deer.”

“That would be the musk.”

“Why do you want to smell like deer, Dorian?”

“Animal magnetism.” Cole gave him a confused look. Dorian sighed. “Just…follow my lead.”

They bathed in Tevinter fashion, which Cole felt was a bit too oily and musky and, at the end, cold for his taste. He preferred scrubbing down in a cool pond with whatever soap was on hand. Then, dressed in clean clothes – Dorian told him to leave his old shirt and trousers for the staff to burn – they walked over to the barber’s room.

“A shave and a trim for me, don’t touch the mustache,” Dorian said, giving the barber a few coins. “My friend needs that mess on his head cleaned up.”

“And a shave?” the barber asked.

“Good question.” Dorian took Cole aside. “You have come to an important crossroads that every young man must face in his life – to shave, or not to shave? And if yes to shave, how much? _How much_ , Cole?”

“I…don’t know?”

“Of course you don’t. Now, not everyone has the jawline and cheekbones to carry the fantastic coiffure upon my own upper lip, and I wouldn’t ask you to try. And though you’ve a decent growth, I wouldn’t recommend going the Blackwall route and trying your hand at something large and ungainly. Usually young, fair men just end up with wisps of sadness and regret.”

“Regret beards?”

“The most tragic of beards. Now, you could choose to shave it all off, but that does take dedication – every morning in front of a mirror if you can. Perhaps for you a simple goatee is in order? Not too much to maintain, still a proud marker of your masculinity. Unless –“

“Can we stop talking about beards?” Cole asked desperately.

“Hm.” Dorian frowned in disapproval. “You’re not quite ready, I think. Full shave it is. Ah, ser, when you shave me, please let the young man watch. Then he’ll shave himself.”

“As you wish.” The barber shrugged – his thoughts revealed many strange requests he had received over the years working at the baths. This was nowhere near the top of the list.

They finished with the barber, Cole see sawing between delight at his new blade, just for his face, that Dorian had bought off the barber, and sadness at the further loss of his hair. It was now trimmed down close at the nape of his neck and length was sacrificed for symmetry.

“I didn’t mind it how it was,” he said as they walked back to the suite, trying to flatten his hair against his head – it tended to fluff up when it was newly clean, and the shortness wasn’t helping. “Not too much.”

“ _I_ minded. I did not want to spend the rest of this little escapade forced to look at a head worse off than a half-shorn sheep.”

They came into the suite to find Tal-Ashkaari and Krem at the table, picking out breakfast from a number of platters of fruits and sliced meats and cheeses and breads and sweet rolls.

“Ho, you’re awake!” Krem beamed at Cole. “Look at you! No one could tell that just yesterday you were on your deathbed.”

“Did you have to call it a deathbed?” Dorian picked up a thin porcelain plate and tore off a bunch of grapes from a bunch.

“It’s okay, Dorian. I knew I was dying.” Cole was only half listening to them. His stomach was beginning to protest – he had never eaten, and then he had nothing to eat but half a roll and broth, and now a feast was laid out before him. He was starving, in almost the literal sense. However, he was not sure where to start.

Krem caught on. He picked up a plate and started piling it with food. “Right, what’s first? You need to try oranges – don’t see those down south often, may be your only chance. Cheese, good cheddar and this stuff, it’s called Havarti. Some venison, need meat to keep you going, and bread and a sweet roll – they fry them and dip ‘em in sugar. Great stuff. And some small ale –“ He poured from a pitcher into a horn cup. “–  and you’re set!” Krem placed the food at the end of the table and waved a hand at the chair.

Everyone was looking at him, which was disconcerting. Krem was excited to see him experience something pleasant. Dorian was amused, if kindly so. Tal-Ashkaari watched everything in silence, itching for her pencil and condemning herself for leaving her notebook in her room to break her fast.

He slowly pulled out the chair and sat, then picked up an orange slice and took a bite.

It was wonderful. Tart and cool and biting and sweet and sticky. He set it down quickly and took a bite of cheese. Equally wonderful, a different wonderful – fatty, softly sour, sharp. The sweet roll was sticky, cloying, the dough melting in his mouth. The venison he avoided. Faint memories drifted from it of the animal it once was. But everything else he ate swiftly, and, still hungry, he stood and contemplated the platters while the others suggested things to try.

“I’m very partial to grapes,” Dorian said, taking still more on his plate. “Just be careful of the seeds.”

“Try the goat cheese. It’s like salty cream. Oh!” Krem held up a hard-boiled egg. “If you’re not gonna eat the meat, you should have something sort of like it. Eggs are good for that.”

“And it has no memories,” Cole said.

“Aauuuh. I guess it wouldn’t?”

“You should have some bread.” Tal-Ashkaari held up a very small loaf with a hard crust and a soft center. “It will sustain you.”

He took a bite of everything, save the meat, amazed at how the flavors mixed together in his mouth – sometimes more pleasantly than others. And the fact that he was not sent reeling by the intensity of the experience was very enjoyable. He could let a bite sit on his tongue as he savored it.

He had just taken a bite of something sweet and crumbly and dense that Krem called pound cake when one of the bedroom doors slammed open. Cole looked up. Sinead stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but her shift, brown eyes wide, a deep frown on her face. He stopped chewing.

Something was _different_. Him. He was different. He had always seen her as her, of course, but something clicked together in his mind as it never had before. Her hair, long black waves that curled at the ends, now a thicket of tangles around her head. Her heart-shaped face and large eyes and straight nose that ended with a rounded tip with a small dip. Her slender shape that curved out at the waist. Her golden skin that had browned in their weeks of traveling.

And then she caught his eye, and she gave him a smile of pure radiance. He swallowed hard.

She ran around the table and pressed her ear against his chest then pressed a hand against his cheek.

“You’re well. You’re healthy and well!” Her smile widened. “You’re very pink.”

“That’s what I said,” he said faintly.

“And you shaved!” She was delighted. As she glanced at the men and Dorian said “well, someone had to show him,” he decided that he would always shave. Forever. She played with a few locks from his shorn bangs. “I’m sorry about your hair.” She felt regret. He would never cut his hair again. “But it is nice to see your eyes.” Correction – he would keep his bangs properly trimmed. It was a nuisance not to see, anyway. “Goodness, you smell nice.” Deer soap. Shaving, no haircuts – no, bang haircuts, that was it – and deer soap. Where would he find deer soap outside of the baths? Would it be wrong to steal some soap for himself? Technically he was helping Sinead…

She pulled away from him. “What am I doing? I must look a fright. Not to mention the smell.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I haven’t even used my tooth rub or mouth rinse in _days_.”

“Ah, tooth rub.” Dorian snapped his fingers. “I knew I was forgetting something. After breakfast, Cole, I’ll teach you the wonders of tooth rub.”

“Hm.” Cole was still focused on Sinead, who was growing more aghast at her hygienic state. Something about her actions made him a bit giddy. It was so very _her_ and she was lovely.

“Oh, my mouth smells like something died inside it. I can _feel_ it. I’m off to the baths.” With her hand still on her mouth, she ran to her room. There was the sound of flurried opening and closing of drawers and doors, and then she ran past them and out the door, mouth tightly closed, a small bag at her side.

He stared at the door for a moment, then turned around and looked at the others, utterly astounded. “She’s beautiful!”

Krem snickered into his cup as Dorian gave him a wide grin.

Tal-Ashkaari cocked a brow. “You did not notice her above average visual appeal before now?”

“No. Yes, from thoughts and wants and desires from others, seeing how they see, but – it’s different. Everything fits, the pieces…” he sank into a chair. Again he felt very pleasantly warm, and his stomach was in his chest. And he felt strangely hungry in a way he knew food would not ease.

“Oh, I know that look,” Dorian said, circling Cole’s face in the air with a finger. “That’s a dangerous look.”

Krem reached across the table and grabbed Cole’s wrist, pulling down his sleeve. He spun the wish bracelet through his fingers – two of the four knots holding it in place had frayed away, but the other two held firm.

“Looks like it’s working to me,” he said, letting Cole go and giving him a wink. “I mean, at least you’ve started thinking with your –“

“Sock?” Dorian cut in.

Krem threw a sweet roll at Dorian’s head, which he agreed was quite deserved.

“Well, lover boy, keep that vision close to your heart,” Krem said. “We won’t be seeing her for the rest of the day.”

Cole’s heart sank. “Why not?”

“Because she’s seen far too much of your face,” Dorian replied. “She needs a break. _You_ need a break. All of us need a break.”

“But what will she do?”

“I am to take her on a –“ Tal-Ashkaari paused. Dorian nodded and rolled his hand. She clenched her teeth. “Ladies’. Day. Out.”

“Oh, I knew you’d say it eventually,” Dorian said, pleased.

“Eat up!” Krem tossed another orange at Cole, which he caught easily. “I’m ready to paint Nevarra red.”


	15. Lady Lotus's Day Out

When Sinead had returned from the baths, she found Tal-Ashkaari alone in the suite, demanding that they go out "on the town" for "an experience" – words she was fairly sure Dorian had put in her mouth.

"What do you mean they took Cole away?" she said angrily as she shoved her feet in her boots. "He hasn't even been well for one day. What if he relapses?"

"If you pushed his – ah, blood soldiers – into action, would not his own body be able to fight the disease now?"

"I don't know! That's the point!" She began to pace. "Not to mention we haven't sent word to Mortalitasi Gemeinhardt yet. Krem spends the whole of last week threatening to carry Cole over his back to a new location, and now we're to fritter a whole day away?"

"Sinead." Tal-Ashkaari stood in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You must calm down. One of our own is no longer dying. We have had no sign of this Titus. You barely slept in the time Cole was ill.

"Further, yesterday Dorian worked very hard at healing you – he said you were weak, like the life was drained from you." She tapped the spot under Sinead's collarbone where there was now a thick scar hidden away under her shirt. "The wound was also difficult to heal due to the damage you did to yourself. He was very sweaty when he was finished, and from what I've witnessed, he does not typically sweat when he does magic.

"Finally, Krem has been keeping an 'ear to the ground,' as he says, making sure no one was watching us. It took a lot of effort to do so." She motioned to the door. "There must be a day of mental rest, or else the group will crumble."

Sinead took a deep breath and nodded. "You're right. Sorry." She placed her hand on the Qunari's arm. "Thank you, by the way. For all the help you gave us while Cole was sick. The books you found at the healer's were invaluable."

"It was nothing." Tal-Ashkaari smiled. "You welcomed me into this group. It is my duty to help where I can."

"All right, then. Let's have a day out."

After sending notice to the Mortalitasi Gemeinhardt as Eluard had instructed, paying the messenger a little extra to be swift, the women walked down the wide streets of the moneyed district and into the merchant district and crossed over to the bazaar. All classes of people shopped here – men and women in their last threads sharing space with richly adorned lords and ladies with servants following in their wake. Vendors and shops lined the streets, and people bustled from shop to shop, carrying boxes and bags of goods.

Sinead was charmed by the district, having assumed Nevarra was a capital far too obsessed with death to have this bit of color. But her enthusiasm was dampened by Tal-Ashkaari's reaction. Any time she suggested a shop to enter, the Qunari would shake her head and say "I am well stocked in clothing" or "tea is not a drink I enjoy" or "we had breakfast earlier – should we be buying cheese?" or "those bits of metallic body decor seem wildly impractical."

Finally Sinead snapped and said, "We're not supposed to buy anything! We're just to look around and admire the things on display!"

Tal-Ashkaari raised her brows. "You enter a shop with the intention to not buy anything, but to look at useless things you cannot afford but nonetheless want?"

Sinead opened her mouth, then smiled and placed her fingers over her lips. "When you put it like that, it seems dreadfully silly, doesn't it?" She laughed. "I'm sorry, I don't do this often. Or ever. I believe 'shopping' is typically on the list for Ladies' Days Out. Or so I was told. But we needn't hold to tradition."

"Oh, I do not mind shopping, if it is for something I need." The Qunari lifted a foot. "I do need new boots. I find that human men's boots are a fine fit."

"Shoe shopping? Almost cliché."

They asked a few vendors and were pointed in the direction of a cobbler who took one look at Tal-Ashkaari's large, well-formed feet, beamed and said, "It will be my finest hour." He gave her the full treatment, measuring and measuring again, offering many different types of leather to choose from – "Nug I typically recommend for women, but madam, you deserve nothing less than Wyvern" – and finally promising upon promise that he would rush their creation so that she could pick them up the very next day. "A pleasure and an honor it will be, my dear."

"I think he liked my feet more than is appropriate," Tal-Ashkaari said disapprovingly as they were leaving the shop. "Outside of the correct setting, it's a bit unnerving."

"What is the correct setting for such a, ah, appreciation?"

"A Sexual Gratification Facility," she said matter-of-factly. "Special request room. I imagine they have special footwear and fruit and scrubbing brushes and so on for those who need it."

Sinead blushed. " _Fruit_? Why –"

"Oh, look, a book vendor!" For the first time that Sinead had ever witnessed, Tal-Ashkaari looked gleeful. She jogged over to the vendor, running her hand down the spines of the rows of books. She pulled one out and flipped it open. "Oh. It's a history of the Pentaghast family. Wait – are they all Pentaghast family histories?"

"You not a fan of the Pentaghasts?" the vendor said gruffly.

"I prefer variety in my novelic wares." She put the book back with its brothers in disgust. "I've met traveling peddlers with more stories to sell than this."

"Well then buy from the peddlers," the vendor snapped, waving his hand. "I don't need some oxman's cunt criticizing my products!"

Tal-Ashkaari's back straightened and her hand tightened around her spear. " _Excuse me_?"

Alarmed, Sinead ran in front of her and placed her hand on the woman's shoulder. "Tal-Ashkaari, please." She then turned to the vendor, stood up on her toes and leaned over his books. "Excuse  _me_? How dare you say such a thing to the Qunari Ambassador of Culture! Do you have any idea what the Pentaghasts had to do to get such an esteemed woman to Nevarra?" She prodded the man's chest. "Do you know what kind of pain will rain down on any whom the Pentaghasts discover insulted her?"

The man blanched. "You – she doesn't look like an ambassador to me!"

"Of course she doesn't," Sinead hissed. "She's incognito, to better experience our way of life! But tell me, how many Qunari women do you see wandering the streets of Nevarra, hm? Oh,  _none_? Who else do you think she could be? You had best not be the one to screw this up for us!"

"I – uh – of course not, m'lady." The man removed his hat and nodded to Tal-Ashkaari. "Sorry, m'lady."

"That's better." Sinead straightened her tunic and waved a hand in front of a flummoxed Tal-Ashkaari. "If you please, ambassador." She pointed at the vendor. "And get some better books!"

They walked down the street a few blocks before Tal-Ashkaari looked down at Sinead and said, "You lied to that man."

"I did." Sinead nodded, a bit surprised at herself.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I didn't want you to stab the man to death." Sinead cocked her head. "Would you have stabbed the man to death?"

"Maybe not to death. But he insulted me in a matter most unacceptable. He deserved a lesson."

"There we go, then. Stabbing anyone in an open bazaar would have caused quite a lot of trouble."

"Hm." Tal-Ashkaari smiled. "I don't condone the lying, but it had satisfactory results." She chuckled. "Ambassador of Culture. If only such a thing existed."

They picked up a few kababs for lunch, and as they ate, Sinead asked if there was anything else Tal-Ashkaari wanted to see.

"The Necropolis is, of course, Nevarra's crown jewel," she said. "I suppose it would be remiss to be here and not take a look."

"No, thank you." Tal-Ashkaari grimaced. "The thought of wandering a city built for the dead is unnerving."

"You're not at all intrigued by the Mortalitasi?"

"Oh, I did not say that. When we meet this Mortalitasi Gemeinhardt, I plan on asking him many questions about his practice – hopefully he will even answer them." She twiddled the kabab stick in her hand. "I simply have no desire to meet the walking dead."

"Technically the dead aren't walking of their own accord," Sinead said brightly. "They're actually possessed by wisps, who move the preserved body about. Apparently it can be quite a problem in places where the dead weren't properly burned – temples and tombs where thieves ran into bad luck, places experiencing a plague, and so on."

Tal-Ashkaari went a lighter shade of purple. "How…fascinating."

Sinead tossed away her kabab stick. "Well, we can't wander the streets all day. Or we could, but I imagine it would bore us both. I don't know what –" suddenly an idea sparked in her head. She linked her arm with Tal-Ashkaari's. "I DO know what! We're going to the University!"

"The university?"

"Are you telling me you don't want to poke around some other academics' roost with a critical eye?"

"Ah." Tal-Ashkaari perked up. "This is an idea I very much enjoy."

Again they asked vendors for directions, and after a few wrong turns they were standing in front of the tall University of Nevarra gates.

"We are here to examine your library," Sinead said to the gatekeeper.

"Library's not for public use. University students, staff and patron nobles only," the gatekeeper drawled in a strong Nevarran accent.

"Your library is members only? That is ludicrous! How do you expect a population to learn without access to your knowledge base?" Tal-Ashkaari was incensed.

Sinead did not blame her. She was equally taken aback. "I thought universities keeping their collections private was a thing of the past," she said with disdain. "Orlais opened their university nearly twenty years ago. Antiva followed suit soon after. And I don't think Rivain ever kept its libraries bound behind walls. What is this, some sort of backwoods?"

"Listen, you can chirp all you want, little birdy, but I can't let you in. Go on." The gatekeeper pointed down the street.

Tal-Ashkaari huffed and marched away from the gate. "I had heard tales of Southern Excess in Par Vollen – and yes, I have seen what could be considered decadence. But this is just disgraceful."

"I agree completely." Sinead walked double time to keep up with the Qunari's long strides. "It's unbelievable! And what's worse is that I have an open dialog with the archivist who runs the collection. Oh, I would give him a piece of his mind if he was in front of me."

Tal-Ashkaari stopped and took Sinead by the shoulder. "You know the man who runs the library?"

"Only through letters, but yes. We've traded tomes back and forth." Sinead crossed her left arm over her dead one. "A sharing program that will cease when I return to Skyhold. Nevarra doesn't deserve our books."

"Would he know you on sight?"

Sinead laughed. "I doubt it. The only thing he knows about me, I'm sure, is the rumored description people throw around about me. La Belle de Lotus Noir has, unfortunately, traveled far beyond Orlais. What a nuisance."

Tal-Ashkaari's eyes took on a glint. "Do you think Skyhold could have a Qunari Ambassador of Culture visiting Nevarra? With, perhaps, La Belle de Lotus Noir?"

Sinead's brows raised. She gave Tal-Ashkaari a wicked grin. "Oh, but Krem would be terribly upset if I started spreading stories around town about La Belle de Lotus Noir being in residence."

"When we are finished, I promise, no one will think the real Lotus Noir was anywhere near the University. We will make a fuss, with the ruination of the school's private material, and the Head Archivist will insist the gatekeeper allowed villains onto the campus. Come!"

The women marched back to the gate. Sinead kicked up her head.

"I must speak to Head Archivist Rudolph Feinz!" She made her tone as arrogant as possible. "I was so put off by your response and had to compose myself. Fetch him at once!"

"Piss off, woman," the gatekeeper sneered.

Sinead looked down her nose. "How  _dare_  you. I am Lady Archivist Sinead of the Inquisition, La Belle de Lotus Noir! My companion here is the Ambassador of Culture for the Qunari, a guest of the Inquisitor in Thedas. I have been charged with showing her the very best sights of our continent, and by the Maker I will have her in this university's library. Now." She pointed at the gate. "Fetch the Head Archivist, or do I have to write a very stern letter to this university's dean about my being turned down at his gate?"

The gatekeeper looked worried. "I…well, I've heard of the Lady Lotus, you know, Inquisition stories, you know." He glanced at her dead arm, strapped to her chest. "I'll get the Head Archivist."

"You do that," Sinead said haughtily.

The gatekeeper ran off. Tal-Ashkaari looked impressed.

"I marvel at your ability to tell tales. How did you learn to do this?"

"I'm not sure –" she paused. "Well. Come to think of it, I may have picked it up as a survival trait. More than once a quick bit of acting got me out of a scrape. I don't think I ever realized that before…"

The gatekeeper soon returned, a portly man huffing behind him. The man peered through the wrought iron gate, then broke into a wide smile.

"Why, it IS you! You look just as those who have met you claim. That is, you are quite the vision. Open the gate you idiot," he hissed at the gatekeeper, who was quick to comply. Head Archivist Feinz passed through and took Sinead's hand. "Welcome to our humble University. And your Qunari guest as well, of course."

He led them through the gate into the austere grounds of the University of Nevarra. Robed students walked the white pathways from one small granite building to another. Feinz rattled off many facts about the University that Sinead promptly forgot. The students had the well-heeled look of Nevarra's elite – which meant that it still operated as a place for lordlings to pass through if they were deemed too weak for the army and weren't heirs. Feinz himself was probably one of these lordlings, she figured. He had the look of a man who never saw a harder day than a holiday fast.

They crossed over a columned threshold into the university library. It was just as neat and orderly as the university grounds – rows of book cases in the back, tables in the front, walls whitewashed, large windows near the ceiling to let in the sunlight during the day, four iron chandeliers to light the room at night.

"Here it is, my home sweet home," he said jovially. "I've heard it doesn't have the same charm as Skyhold's library, but I love it all the same." He ran a hand lovingly over one of the old, scarred study tables.

Sinead's anger dissipated. She could not stay angry at a man who so clearly loved his collection. And she had noted in the past that the books delivered from Nevarra were some of the best kept tomes she came across.

"The Orlesian cataloging system is used, I presume?" she said automatically.

"Naturally. Tevinter's the only hold out at this point." Feinz chuckled. "Oh, and – I'm not sure what sort of cataloguing system is used in Par Vollen. It must be…fascinating. Is it true that it's numbered?"

Tal-Ashkaari, who was about to speak, probably something snappish, was thrown by this question. "Ah. Yes," she said, stumbling over her words. "Numbers within numbers separated by decimals. Lettering was deemed far too difficult to use, due to confusion when arranging by subject matter."

"Oh, my." He looked up at her, beaming. "If the two of you were willing to take tea with me, could you perhaps share the basics of the system? It sounds wonderfully logical. You know, people go on and on about the Qunari, saying they're domineering and tyrannical and heretical and so on, but personally I've never known a people more dedicated to  _logic_."

Tal-Ashkaari looked charmed. "That is it precisely."

He led the women to his office, and quite by accident they found themselves having tea, little cakes and sandwiches, as well as a lengthy discussion about library dynamics and academics in the modern world.

The subject of an open library did come up – "You wouldn't believe how many times I've battled with the dean over it," Feinz sighed. "But he's an old man set in old ways. I'm looking forward to his replacement – I'm young enough yet that I can convince a more open mind that we can't fall behind Orlais! For now I'll have to be happy with the open loan system through Skyhold." He gave Sinead a wink.

Many hours later, as the sun was beginning to set, Feinz saw them off at the gate.

"You are such charming company," he said, giving Sinead's hand a shake. "I cannot wait to tell my colleagues. They will be green with envy. I look forward to your next letter, Lady Archivist!"

And they were released back to the streets of Nevarra. They walked in silence a bit.

"Well," Tal-Ashkaari said finally. "That went not as I expected."

Sinead slapped her head. "Andraste's wound, we've placed ourselves. Krem is going to  _kill_  me. He's already been sweating over how long we've been here."

"I recommend that we do not share this information with Krem," Tal-Ashkaari said quickly. "In my experience, academics only share among academics. The likelihood that Titus has spies in the Navarran university is low."

"I could hide that information from Krem. But Cole…" Sinead huffed. "What am I saying? I'm not going to lie to everyone just to keep them from being mad at me! I have to tell Krem."

"Ah. Well. You are right, it is a lie, if one of omission." Tal-Ashkaari fidgeted. "Shall we go to the hotel and see if your Mortalitasi has returned your message? With any luck he wishes to meet as soon as possible. Perhaps that will quell Krem's anger."

"I've never even seen him truly angry." Sinead shook her head, defeated. "It's always the ones who have the calmest demeanors who explode the most spectacularly."

* * *

The Mortalitasi had left a message for Sinead with the hotel concierge – boilerplate, it had only an address and time, and was dated for the following day.

"Nine in the morning? He wishes to meet quite early." Tal-Ashkaari brightened. "We could possibly leave the city tomorrow afternoon."

"Very good news. We should find the men and let them know. Um." Sinead eyed Tal-Ashkaari.

"Ah, yes, the men." She pulled a slip of paper from a purse on her belt. "We are to meet them at a tavern called 'Dead Men Walking.' That is nearly clever."

" _Nearly_."

They got directions from the concierge and wandered the boulevards filled with the wealthy nightlife of Nevarra until they found the tavern – a place attempting to be a hole in the wall for patrons too rich to want to be seen in an actual hole in the wall.

"This was certainly Dorian's selection," Sinead muttered.

They entered the Dead Men Walking, which was packed with young and old at every too-clean oak table. A small band played a reel in the center of the room, and people were dancing old folk dances poorly in their silk slippers and dragon skin boots.

Sinead spotted Cole's hat in a corner –  _Maker bless that hat_ , she thought – and she and Tal-Ashkaari wove through the crowd and sat down at the table where the three men had settled. Dorian and Krem raised their mugs at the women with a "Ho!"

"Sinead!" Cole's eyes lit up and he moved to stand, but Krem stopped him.

"This is a HO situation," he said cheerfully. "Raising your glass is enough for now."

"Oh." Cole paused. "Do I have to do it now? Because you already did it before…"

"Nonono, moment's past, long gone. Anyway! What have you ladies been up to today? Buy any shoes?"

"One pair of wyvern skin boots," Tal-Ashkaari prompted.

"No shit? Hm, you know, I may need a pair myself…"

"That's not really important," Sinead said quickly. She glanced at Cole, then looked at Krem, then glanced again at Cole. "We have a bit of news – you see, I've been an idiot, though we may not have a problem and –" Cole was dreamily humming to the melody of the reel, watching her speak with a small smile playing on his lips. "– is Cole  _drunk_?"

"Drunk is such an ugly word," Dorian said. "I'd say he's more…sloshed."

"Crocked," Krem added.

"Potted."

"Stewed."

"Fuddled."

"Lush."

"I'm a little bit inebriated." Cole showed this little bit with his fingers.

Sinead narrowed her eyes at Krem. "You're supposed to be the responsible one!"

"Yeah, and tonight I'm responsible for making sure Cole here has his first hangover tomorrow morning." Krem grinned. "He's gotta have one eventually. Might as well be the day after he cheated death, eh?"

"How many have you had?" she asked desperately.

"Don't worry, I haven't had more than three." Cole counted on his fingers. "Or four. No, three, this is the fourth." He gave her an entreating look. "Please don't be upset. Everyone here's so happy!" He pointed around the bar. "He's happy, she's happy, they're all happy, he's – oh, no, his wife left him for her Antivan lover. He's not happy at all, and is considering hiring the Crows. But the man next to him is very happy!"

Her fear in his health was stifled by his good cheer. She relaxed. "Well, can I at least ask that you not finish the fourth ale? You seem plenty well  _sloshed_."

"That's fine by me. But the ale's been bought." Krem passed Cole's half-full mug to Sinead. "If he can't drink it, you should."

"Me? But I –"

"For goodness' sake, woman, drink the damned ale," Dorian said, exasperated. "You've been wound tighter than a Qunari warrior's loincloth for weeks. Drink and be merry before you snap!"

"Well, when you put it like that," she huffed. She took a large sip of the ale and grimaced. "Tastes like rotten bread. Not quite as smooth as wine."

"It's not supposed to be smooth. It's ale." Krem turned to Tal-Ashkaari. "One for you?"

"I shall partake, yes. It is customary in Par Vollen to celebrate victory in battle with alcoholic beverages."

Krem slapped the table and held up a hand for the wait staff.

"And a battle it was," Dorian said. "I swear on my Mother's well-stocked liquor cabinet, Sinead, if you ever do anything again like that little trick yesterday while I'm the only mage with a bit of healing nearby, I will…well, I will heal you, but I'll be very cross about it and demand compensation."

Sinead laughed and took another swig of the ale. Swig seemed the most appropriate word to use with ale, yes, she thought. "Thank you, Dorian. I can't promise to not do tricks, but I can promise a bottle of good wine if I do."

"Fair enough."

"And now everyone here is happy!" Cole said brightly. The music changed over and he gasped. "I know this! I know this dance! I watched it in Val Royeaux! Sinead, you have to dance with me."

"What? I do?" She sputtered. "In public?"

Krem laughed. "You don't like dancing in public?"

"No,  _he_  doesn't."

"Liquid courage," Dorian quipped.

Cole stood and held out his hand. "Please? It's the one with the little jump."

"I don't remember any dances with little jumps!"

"Aw, go on, Lady Archivist. Drink up and dance." Krem waved toward the band.

Sinead squared her chin, took many bitter gulps of ale, then stood. Cole grinned and hopped around the table, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the center of the tavern. He swung her out, then back to him, spun with her, then swung her out again, moved behind her and lifted her up. At first it was all she could do to keep up with the steps, but after a moment she got into the rhythm. As the ale made its way through her, warming her, she felt more fluid, more relaxed. By the time the band was finished with the dance, she was laughing.

She led Cole back to the table, finished off the ale to Krem and Dorian's approval, and said, "another one!"

"An ale or a dance?" Cole asked.

"Yes!"

They generally caroused for more than an hour before Sinead remembered her meeting in the morning.

"Flames and swords!" she cried. "Gemeinhardt sent a message to us. I have to see him at nine tomorrow!"

"What?" Krem slammed down his ale. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I was, but then Cole was – the ale and – I have to get back to the hotel! Have to sleep! I can't very well talk about Eluard with a hangover."

"I'll go with you," Cole said quickly. "So you won't be alone."

Sinead gave him a look. "I'm a mage, remember? If anyone tries to do anything funny, I'll take their hand. I've done it before."

"Not that kind of alone," he said, as if this was obvious. "I'm not afraid for you."

"Hm." Dorian gave Cole a critical look. "I don't know if it's wise to –"

"Let 'im take you home," Krem cut in, eyes dancing. "Haven't seen each other all day, right? Absence makes the heart something something."

"Okay." Sinead eyed Krem suspiciously. Then her heart sank. "Oh. And there was another thing…"

"I will tell him the other thing," Tal-Ashkaari said. "It was, after all, my idea. Please go rest."

Sinead gave Tal-Ashkaari a grateful look, nodded to everyone, then pulled Cole through the tavern crowd and out the door. As they ran out into the night, she was fairly sure she heard a loud "WHAT?" coming from their table's direction.

* * *

Cole chattered as they walked.

"Did you know there's a whole contest they have here where they rate dogs for being the most doglike dogs of their kind?" he enthused. "We didn't see it, or well, Dorian and Krem didn't see it, but I saw it in the head of the woman who ran the salon we went to. She had a dog who was so dog that she made him dog three other dog litters."

Sinead laughed, hanging on to his arm for balance. An ale and a half left her quite tipsy.

"How does a dog dog especially well?"

"I think it's the legs. And the nose. And the ears. And sometimes the tail."

"So the whole dog has to dog?"

"Well, yes. Or else it wouldn't be a proper dog. I…think."

"Well, that's sensi – wait, you went to a salon?"

"Yes. It was very red in there, and fuzzy, and almost everyone spoke about philosophy and art and music but thought about sex. A lot of people wore very thin clothing." He flushed a bit. "It was…nice."

"They took you to a naughty salon?" She felt that, if sober, she'd be shocked. But she was not sober, and instead cackled with glee. "Who chose the salon? Dorian or Krem?"

"Krem. He said it would be enlightening."

"Krem likes naughty salons!? That explains all the philosophy books he checked out."

"Oh, just a moment." As a couple passed them, Cole said, "He's been wanting to tell you all night that he's ready, but he's afraid you'll say no."

The man looked as if he wanted to deck Cole, but the woman gasped and took the man's hand.

"Is this true?"

The man blinked and blushed. "Well…"

They left the couple to sort out their business, Cole humming and bouncing a bit as he walked. Sinead's heart swelled and she smiled. She did rather love this strange young man, loved the little things he did to make people happy.

"To help." Cole stopped and looked down at her. He seemed about to say something, then glanced up at the lit up manor house they had stopped in front of and looked back at her, his eyes sparkling.

He took her hand and led her quickly around the tall brick wall of the house to a side gate in the alley.

"They're having a party," he said, pulling his lock picking tools from his belt. "To toast their themness. They won't know we're there."

"Wait, you want to sneak inside the house?" Sinead hissed, placing her hand on his.

"Yes."

"Why?" She gave him a look. "We're not going to take anything, are we?"

"No. Well, yes. But we won't  _steal_  anything." He took her hand. "Please, Sinead?"

His face was so eager, so sure that whatever was inside the house was something marvelous, that curiosity got the better of her. The ale probably helped as well.

She nodded. "Let's do this."

Cole made quick work of the lock and eased open the gate so it did not squeak. He led her through, placing a finger on her lips.

"Walk carefully," he whispered. "Follow my steps. Try not to make a sound. Walking on tip toe helps."

They stole through the manor grounds, hidden in shadow, to a small door near the back. Cole pressed Sinead against the wall then pulled on the door handle. It was latched from within. He took a long, thin tool and slid it in the crack between the door and the wall and worked the latch open. Again he pulled on the door and opened it a crack and peered through it. Satisfied with what he saw, he quickly slipped in and pulled Sinead after him.

Heart pounding, she let him lead her through the entryway of a grand kitchen – the small stone room where boots and boxes and bottles were stored. She could hear the bustle of the kitchen beyond. Cole slipped along the wall and peeked into the kitchen. He waited, two, four, eight breaths, then took her by the hand and ran with her past the entryway and made a hard right through a large stone arch into the dark hallway of the laundry area.

He pushed her into a corner in the shadows and pressed against her. She was near breathless with nerves.

"How did no one see us?" She hissed.

"Busy. Baking, broiling, basting, boxing the scullery maid's ears. People don't look for what they think isn't there." His voice was near her ear, his breath against her cheek. Her heart fluttered.

He waited another moment, then pulled her from the corner, and up a flight of stairs at the end of the hall. He tested every stair, careful of any sound they would make, and she followed his steps as exactly as she could. They climbed the second flight, and on the third floor landing the door began to open. Cole rushed her up the final flight of stairs. She glanced back, watching an unassuming maid carry a basket through the door.

On the fourth floor landing, Cole opened the door a crack, then smiled and opened it wide. He led her through onto a rooftop patio, one that was abundant in topiary and patio furniture and marble statuettes of beasts of the field. The patio's lanterns were unlit, and shadows cast by the city lanterns covered the small green place in a cloak of darkness.

"What a silly little garden," Sinead said, running her hand over a bush trimmed up to look like a phoenix. "Is the owner a hunter?"

"He hunts for hidden things," Cole said. "Not because he wants to know, but because he wants to be the first to have."

"Oh, one of those." She giggled. "I bet he has an alchemic laboratory in his basement."

"Yes. But that's not important." He took her hand and drew her to the far corner of the patio, near the edge of the roof, where a very large brass cylinder was propped up on a tall pole and angled up at the sky. The cylinder tapered down at the end to a small cylindrical piece that jutted out of it perpendicularly. He beamed at her. "This is what's important."

"What is it?" She pondered its design. It looked like some sort of horn, though the smaller cylinder had a piece of glass within it, so that could not be right.

"He set it up today – I heard him earlier before we went to the salon. He was very proud. Smuggled from Par Vollen, something so sublime all would know his name. A telescope."

"Telescope." She brushed her fingers over the brass. Then a thought sparked and her eyes widened. "Wait, is this the far-seeing instrument that has been rumored that the Qunari have? The one they use to see their enemies from great distances?"

"Yes! Well, no, not enemies. Maybe enemies. But this one isn't used in war." He moved the telescope around, positioning it at a new angle. Then he tapped the small cylinder. "This one is used to see the stars. Look!"

She frowned and placed her eye upon the cylinder. Then she gasped and pulled away, giving him a look of astonishment, looking up at the sky, and then returning to the eyepiece. The image she saw seemed unreal – surrounded by a smattering of stars was a smear of bright red that bloomed from a white light.

"What is it?" She breathed, unable to look away.

"It burned, too hot, too massive, until it fell in on itself and died, pushing out and burning everything in its path. Now its body drifts in a cloud of dust. Someday the dust will be new stars."

"A dead star seen in the city of the dead," she murmured. "How beautiful it is."

"Do you want to see more?" His voice rang with excitement.

She looked up, her face shining, and nodded. He moved the telescope around again and motioned to her. She looked through the eyepiece, now at a yellow sphere. She furrowed her brow. There were markings on the sphere, thin lines and raised bits that made shadows on its surface. She looked away and up at the stars, angling her hand out with the telescope and pointing at a small yellowish dot in the sky.

"Maker's breath. That's Tethis!" She placed her hand on her chest and looked at Cole. "One of the five planets that move about the sky? Third in place from the sun?"

"Fourth," Cole corrected. "This one is third."

"This what?"

"This." He spread his arms wide. "The one that is home."

"Cosmos? That's – well, that's rather unlikely," she said, skeptical. "It isn't some simple planet."

Cole cocked his head. "Why do so few want to believe that we're on a sphere spinning around a star spinning around in a great ocean of stars in the darkness?"

"I –" She stopped, not knowing how to respond.

"I'll show you." He moved the telescope again, this time carefully, as if seeking something specific. He angled it further and further down, getting on his knees as he worked. Then he nodded. "Look."

She lowered to her knees and leaned down, looking through the eyepiece. It was a bright blue light that spread like a disc through the star-speckled black, the light growing fainter the further it was from the center.

"Do you see? It's a dance, Sinead. All of it's a dance. It holds stars upon stars upon stars," he said. "Spinning together, so far away that the light lies. And there are lands among those stars, like our home, the people there different and the same as us, thinking, dreaming, wanting, looking up at their own stars. All dancing together. Just like us."

Her breath caught in her throat. She looked away, swallowing and swallowing again, her hand dropping to her knee as she stared up at the sky.

"You mean…we aren't the only ones? This is but one little world?" She began to tear up, smiling in wonder, her mind spinning with the stars. "My – I – how marvelous. To be one little world, one little bit of star dust. How small our problems are." Her heart ached. "Oh, I wish I could meet them –our brothers in the stars."

She felt his hand threading his fingers through hers. She turned her eyes from the stars to him, but was no less dazzled. The look he was giving her was unlike any she had ever seen from him before. It was like awe, though there was an edge to it, a flicker of heat. She raised her brows.

"Cole?"

"Do you know what it's like to see inside your head from the outside? A window into worlds one wants to be a part of. When I hear you dream of dreams in the stars, I – I can't…" He stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. "I am so glad I know you. So glad my life and yours wrapped 'round each other." He moved the telescope up and out of the way, wiped the wet from her eyes and placed his hand on her cheek. "I am so lucky."

Her heart began to pound. "You, the lucky one?" She laughed nervously, her breath quickening as his hand ran down her cheek and his fingers brushed her jaw. "I'm just a person. A normal woman. You're the wonder, the man who changed everything to help. If anyone's lucky, it's me."

"Normal. No such thing." His fingers traced down her neck and over her shoulder. The hand threaded through hers lifted her hand to press it against his cheek then draped her arm over his shoulder. "No one, no body, no thing is normal – all distinct, all significant, all minds singing solitary stories."

"Then it's normal to not be normal? That's heartening."

She curled her hand around the nape of his neck, weaving her fingers into his shorn hair as his right hand ran down her arm, slipped down her back and pressed her gently towards him, closing the distance between them. His left hand was curled, his knuckles brushing under her chin. He leaned over her, close enough that she felt the heat of his breath against her lips. Her head was light, almost dizzy.

"I sometimes wish I could hear the song your mind sings," she whispered, trembling a little. "It must be beautiful."

"Yours is better than beautiful," he whispered in return. "It is radiance and wonder and hope and delight and –"

She kissed him, unable to hold back the want any longer. A soft, aching kiss, a kiss of longing, of wanting. He kissed her back, returned the soft-lipped kisses, as he always had in the past.

But something was  _different_. Him. He was different. His breath grew short, his pulse beneath her fingers quickened, his right hand moved behind her head, his left down to the small of her back, pressing her into him. He deepened the kisses, tasting her, drawing her in so that she tasted him, the sour of the ale, and behind that the flavor that was him, tinny and sweet. She ran her hand further into his hair and under his hat. It tipped off his head, rolled off her arm and clattered against the stone floor.

Heat ran though her, blooming in her chest, down to the rise between her thighs. She ached for him, and as her need grew his kisses became more desperate, his hand left hand moving ever lower. He sat back, crossed his legs and sat her on his lap, his left hand moving down her thigh. He cradled her now with his right arm, and she clung to him, eager to be closer to him. His left hand moved up her thigh and inward. She gasped and pulled away and he stopped its ascent.

They took stock, looking at each other, panting. She could see in the lantern light that his face was flush and his lips red and raw. His shirt collar was askew and his hair tousled. His eyes were muzzy and dilated.

"I never thought I –" He stopped in surprise. His voice was husky. He licked his swollen lips and tried again. "I've never  _wanted_  like this. I…"

"Neither have I," she said breathily. Every bit of her wanted, needed, desired. It almost scared her how much she could want – how far she'd let the want take her, here on an unknown patio in an unknown city. The tiny voice in her head, the reasoned one that had managed to stay sober, told her it was time to go back to the hotel. The panic demanded an end to this evening before it all went wrong.

But neither was stronger than the want.

She lifted her chin. "What  _do_  you want?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, giving his head a little shake. Then he opened them again and kissed her neck. She sucked in her breath as his lips moved down to her collarbone, lifted her head back as he kissed the hollow beneath her throat, kissed beneath her jaw. His hand left her thigh, moving up the curve of her hip, up her side, over her shoulder, up the back of her neck.

Something suddenly felt off – something that felt familiar and unpleasant. She pushed the thought away as he kissed her shoulder and his fingers grazed her braid. As his hand clasped her hairpins, it clicked together.

She cried out, but it was too late – he pulled the pins free of her hair, her braid fell loose, and her head filled with memories of blood and death, another pair of hands running up her back, hands holding her hairpins, hands holding the sword that murdered the Sten, hands that held a knife that sliced into an arm, pushed into her thoughts, forcing her to love and want and desire before she yanked back and pulled the life out of those hands.

Cole's body stiffened and he gave no resistance as she pushed away from him, falling back first onto the patio. She gasped for breath and curled onto her side as darkness edged into her sight. She forced her breathing to steady, counting the length of each breath. As the panic lessened, she pulled herself to her knees groggily.

Cole was still sitting cross-legged, his eyes wide and staring at the hand clenching the pins in his lap. He had lost his flush, and was now pale.

"I never felt those memories like that before," he murmured. "I didn't mean to – I don't want to hurt – I am so sorry."

"Nothing you did hurt me," she said shakily. "It's my stupid head. Stupid, stupid." He flinched as she touched his hand.

Then he looked up quickly. "They're coming." He picked up his hat and shoved it onto his head, then helped her up and ran with her around the topiary.

A set of double doors burst open and a number of well-dressed guests poured onto the patio. Cole held her close, watching the people as they spread out, pulling her carefully closer to the servant's door. They slipped through quickly, Cole shutting the door quietly behind him. Then he took her by the hand and ran down the stars, caring not for the sound they made in their flight. They ran around the corner of the kitchen, hearing a "hey!" as they burst through the lower servant's entrance, ran across the grounds, through the gate and into the streets.

Back on the boulevard, Cole slowed their pace to a walk, and they were silent as they caught their breath. He played with her pins, twisting them in his hands with a frown.

"The blackness will never go away," he said finally.

"The blackness?" She blinked, then realized. She pulled at the buckles on her arm brace. "You mean my blackness."

"It waxes and wanes, pushes and pulls, sometimes swallows, sometimes lurks and waits. But it's always there."

"Yes, I suppose it is." She stared at her feet as she walked. "I've told you, it's been with me a long time now. Maker knows it's better than it's been since I was a child, but it's…well, it's awfully persistent. Like my own personal little storm cloud. Lucky me."

"I  _hate_  it."

Her chest tightened, and for the first time she feared something she never thought she'd have the chance to fear – she feared that being herself, being who she was, blackness and all, may push him away. That the blackness may be too much, too troubling, to inconvenient. Years of avoiding the very thought of love, nearly a year of doing her best to not love him, and months of slowly becoming comfortable and accepting of his love for her had not prepared her for such a dreadful thought.

He stopped and turned on her, his face stunned. "No, that's not it at all. It's not you," he said, still twisting her pins in his hands. "And the blackness isn't something I'd run from! It's something I – I'm afraid of. Because it hurts you, and I can't help."

"You do help," she said gently. "You are the biggest help. You've kept it from conquering me a few times now."

"But it's still  _there_." He was frustrated, sad.

He continued walking, and she followed him, mulling over his words.  _Something he_  fears? She thought.

He was silent a moment before he began to speak again in a quiet voice. "When I first met you, before you remembered meeting me, the blackness confused me. For most people it hurts for a time, but the hurt begins to fade with help. With you, it squatted, stubborn, sticky, staying no matter what I said. I made you forget again and again, sure if I said the right thing…"

"I remember. Well." She laughed a little. "I don't remember the forgetting, but I remember asking you to stop."

"Yes. It was before things were clear, when everything was still so bright. I never stopped trying, even if I stopped making you forget. If you had the right place in Skyhold, the right books, the right friends, if we were friends, if you had love, maybe…" He stopped speaking, as if the words would not come. Sinead said nothing, waiting for him to finish what he wished to say.

They turned into the entrance of the hotel, climbed the stairs to the suite and entered the common room before he spoke again. He took a breath.

"When I knew I loved you, when I knew it wasn't too real for me anymore, I thought I could be what chased away the blackness. I was…wrong. It hurts to be wrong. It hurts that I can't stop what makes you hurt."

She felt sober now. His words resonated with her, made her ache, for both him and for her. She placed a hand on his, easing her pins from his grasp.

"Please don't let yourself hurt because of something neither of us can stop. It's there. It won't go away. But it isn't all of me, and I shan't let it defeat me."

"No. But I want so much for you not to hurt, ever again. I…" he grazed her hair with his fingers, wrapping a lock around his thumb.

She pressed his hand against her lips, then lifted onto her toes and kissed him softly.

"That is an impossible want," she said.

She kissed him again, tasted of him again, and he returned the kiss, gently at first, increasing in urgency with every move of the lips. She pulled away before the heat returned in full force, ducking back as he tried to catch her lips again.

"I must go to bed. I don't want to meet this Mortalitasi at my worst."

She slipped away from him and padded to her room, turning and looking at him from the door. He gazed at her with such longing that it took every ounce of her resolve to whisper "goodnight" and close the door. She set down her pins, covered her mouth with her hand and pressed her back against the door. Was she ready for this new chapter in her relationship with Cole, which would have to have its own new set of rules? She was not ready to let go with someone else just yet, was she? The ale helped her along, but how would she have felt in the morning had things gone further on the patio?

She realized that she may have to ask that he not come into her room anymore when she had a bad dream. A required request that both made her feel very warm and very disappointed at the same time, and as she lay down in bed she battled with herself over it until she drifted off to sleep.


	16. Mortalitasi

Cole did not sleep well. After Sinead went to bed he tried to do the same, but ended up staring at the ceiling thinking about the patio and the want and the need and not being able to chase it away. It was like a creature was within his head, telling him to do the stupidest things. Why not knock on Sinead's door and ask if she'd like to have company? No, that was too obvious. She'd laugh and turn him away.

If he slept next to her door, he'd be the first thing she saw in the morning! Maybe she'd invite him in, they'd talk about something silly, and he'd say something about her hair – no, not her hair, she hated that, people reducing her to her lovely, wonderful, black as an overcast night hair. It was such fantastic hair, like a crest on a bird of paradise.

Why was he thinking of birds of paradise? She was not a bird. Plumage, that was it. She had wonderful plumage. Well, he could not tell her  _that_. Even if it was true. And the plumage was not even the best part about her, it was the everything inside. But the outside was very nice – what did it say in that one book? Some dull Orlesian play Sinead read to him that needed more griffons - gilding of the lily?

He laughed a little. Gilding of the lotus. Lotuses were the superior flower anyway, the way the many petals spread softly open, surrounding the sweet-smelling center.

And now he was absolutely brimming with want, so much so that it made him itch. From flowers!? Why did flowers – oh. Of course.

This was becoming a nuisance. How did people who were people for longer than he had been people handle this want when there was no one to kiss like they had kissed, feeling her with his lips, brushing his hand down her back –

And so on. He did manage to fall asleep eventually, and at first he was relieved to find himself in the Fade. But then he realized he was again on the idea hunter's patio, a soft song playing in the distance, and an unknown spirit had taken on Sinead's form, dressed in one of the thin linen shirts he had seen at the salon. She asked if he wanted to dance, and by dance she meant have sex.

"But you aren't her," Cole protested as she took his hand. "Not really. I'm sorry. It's kind of you to think of me, though."

"Oh, you know where you are?" The spirit pouted in a very unSinead fashion. It looked strange on her face. And also oddly appealing. Mostly strange, though, he quickly amended. "Well, that's no fun at all."

"I'm sorry," Cole said again, a little confused. Was he the one who should apologize? "Are you trying to help?"

"No, I'm trying to have  _fun_ ," the spirit said. The clothes around her changed, the Fade changed, and he was in Sinead's room in the Montilyet estate. Now the spirit was clearly nude, sitting in the bathtub, arm covering her breasts. "Oooh, you got awfully close to seeing everything then, didn't you? Pity you didn't walk in a few seconds earlier!"

Cole stumbled back and fell on his arse with a small wail. " _Why_?"

"I'm not showing you anything your head isn't already full of," the spirit said with a shrug. She splashed Cole with the water. "You want me to stand up?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Well, yes, but  _don't_. Please."

"Suit yourself."

The Fade changed again into Sinead's room at Skyhold. The spirit wore Sinead's summer shift, sitting on the edge of her bed, one leg crossed and swinging over the other.

"She's fun to wear!" the spirit said brightly. "She was awfully trusting of you before you went and got all that icky human all over you. Knew you didn't get a lick of a rise from her. You think she'd let you see her like this now? I mean, after you stuck your tongue in her mouth and everything."

"No," Cole said mournfully. "Can you please go away now?"

"But I'm still having fun!"

"I'm not," Cole snapped, losing patience. He stood and walked away, not really caring how the Fade shifted around him so long as he could be far away from this nuisance.

"Aw, don't be like that."

The Fade changed and he was walking through poppies. He checked his head, annoyed, and pulled off a flower crown and threw it on the ground. The spirit tsked, circling him in Sinead's form, wearing her long gold tunic and poppies in her hair.

"You certainly are cross for Compassion," she said critically. "Why won't you help me have fun?"

"Because I'm not just Compassion anymore, I'm me," Cole said irritably. "And I don't want you to have fun. I want you to leave me alone."

"Well if you're gonna be like  _that_." The spirit pressed up against him. "Just one little smooch."

"No." Cole tried to push her away, but the spirit jumped back, taking on its true form, wispy and green, giggling as it zipped away. The Fade changed again, becoming a dreary field somewhere in the Dales. Cole sighed and fell back into the grass, waiting to wake up.

* * *

The sunlight hurt. It hit his eyes, adding to the headache needling his temples. He squinted, trying to see and avoid the light at the same time, but seeing also hurt. He propped his head on his hand, staring down at the plate of bread and fruit in front of him. It all looked very unappetizing – his stomach rolled at the thought of putting food in his mouth.

"You'd be better off with this." Krem moved the plate aside placed a mug in front of him. Its contents smelled terrible.

"What's in it?" He looked at the viscous liquid skeptically.

"Old hangover cure. 'Sgot powdered elfroot, tea, a whole banana and two raw eggs. Trust me, takes the pain away in a jiffy."

"How do I drink a whole banana?"

"I squished it up. That's the chunks, see?"

Cole's stomach jumped and he pushed the mug away. "I'm fine," he said miserably, hiding his face in his hands.

"Good morning, merry folk!" Dorian entered the common room, fixing the last buckles of his robes. "All present and accounted for?"

"The women are still in the baths," Krem said. "And I don't know if Cole counts as present."

They were far too loud, the both of them. Cole moved his hands over his ears with a groan.

"Oh, that bad, hm?" Dorian leaned over Cole and nodded. "Yes, that bad." He picked up the mug and grimaced. "Krem, please don't tell me you tried to feed him some ridiculous old wives' cure."

"I swear, it works every time," Krem said. "If he'll just hold his nose –"

"He's hung over, not lacking taste buds." Dorian pushed the mug across the table to Krem, then poured a cup of water and set it in front of Cole. He took a small tin from his belt purse, opened it, and tapped out two small pills and placed them in Cole's hand. " _That_  will help more than eggs and, I don't know, ginger or goat intestines or whatever else is in that mug. Trust me. I'm a lush."

Cole sighed, popped the pills in his mouth, and gulped down the water. At first his stomach protested the entry of any liquid, but after a moment the liquid seemed to sooth his roiling belly. He set the cup down shakily.

"I'm never drinking ale again," he muttered.

"Oh, if I had a gold coin for every time that lie has been uttered, I'd be richer than the Archon." Dorian prepped a plate for himself from the breakfast platters. "The women had best hurry up. It's already eight."

"I think Sinead is feeling the ale this morning, too, though not as bad as mopey here," Krem said with a grin. "Looks like we thrashed the lightweights."

Cole looked up at Krem blearily. "Why aren't either of you sick?"

Dorian waved a hand loftily. "Conquering the demon drink is an acquired skill. It takes experience, a concerted effort at training the body –"

"What he means is that it takes a shitload of getting drunk and feeling miserable the next day before you figure out how not to do that," Krem said.

"Well, if you want to put it crassly…"

"Can you…be not as loud," Cole whimpered, putting his forehead against the table and covering his head with his hands.

The headache and nausea were unpleasant, but they weren't the only ills afflicting him. Just as when he was sick, truly sick and dying, not just feeling as if he was dying like this morning, he was having trouble keeping out the tickling thoughts around him. They were but whispers for the most part, but he could feel the thousands of voices from the dungeon prisoners pressing against his consciousness.

Tal-Ashkaari and Sinead walked in the room, bringing with them a floral scent most unlike the deer soap of the mens' baths, as well as their own tickling thoughts. He looked up, noting Tal-Ashkaari seemed as well as Dorian and Krem. Sinead, meanwhile, was squinting a little, and her steps were slow and deliberate. He considered looking into her mind to check on her, but thinking about hearing more voices than his and the whispers made his head hurt.

"How long have all of you been up?" she asked groggily. "And is there any hot tea? What on earth was in that ale, Krem?"

"Ale. Ale was in the ale."

"I'm never drinking ale again." She staggered over to the table and picked up a cup of steaming tea that Dorian poured for her.

"Well, I've been up for some time now," Dorian said cheerfully. "Took Cole with me to the baths earlier. After he lost most of last night's supper in the privy –"

" _Dorian_." Cole was in anguish. Memories of the night before washed through him, and he wanted very much to be able to make everyone forget everything from the last twelve hours and disappear forever. He could barely bring himself to look Sinead in the eye. There was no more want, only desperate mortification.

Sinead sat next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. "We must be a sad pair," she said, stealing some grapes from his untouched plate. "Do you mind if I prop myself against you when we walk to Gemeinhardt's?"

Unbelievable. Either she remembered little from the night before, or she did not consider his unchecked want nearly as embarrassing as he did. It had to be the latter, yes? He could check to make sure – no, the extra thoughts, his stomach, better to assume for now. He relaxed a little – he still felt like dying, but he did not want to disappear anymore.

"You'll have to prop  _me_  up," he said with a groan. "Everything is too bright."

"Don't worry about him, he'll be fine when the pills kick in," Dorian said brightly.

"What pills?" Sinead said suspiciously.

"I'm not telling you. Because you'll have my head. But they work, believe me."

Dorian was right – as the five of them walked to the address on Sinead's letter, the pain in his head lessened and his nausea cleared. He felt more energetic, more capable of doing. The whispers still pushed against him, but they were a soft susurrus now.

They walked out of the upper district of Nevarra's capital and crossed into the Necropolis's residential area. The streets were oddly quiet in this part of the city – they saw only one group of silent, robed men and women who studied them with curiosity as they passed. Cole's head started to pound. For some reason, the prisoners were louder here – but he was sure no one would lock away condemned men in the Necropolis, would they? He could not remember from the memories he had long ago gleaned from Cassandra…

Sinead led them deep into the residential district, stopping in front of a grand, old, stately manor.

"Goodness, is this it?" Sinead looked up and up at the five-floored building. "Who is this Mortalitasi?"

"Clearly someone important," Dorian said. "Better ring the bell. Important people like everything to be official."

Sinead did so, pulling at a long rope hanging next to the door. There was a chime within, like a chapel bell. A pause, and then an old robed man opened the door.

"Gemeinhardts' residence," he drawled. "May I ask who calls?"

"Ah, yes. Sinead. That is, Sinead the archivist, Eluard's old apprentice." She handed the servant her letter.

"Just a moment." The servant closed the door, leaving them to fidget on the doorstep.

Or, leaving Sinead to fidget. No one else was really the fidgeting type. Well, he was of course. Sometimes he felt he had to move his body, the energy building, brimming over –

The servant opened the door again. "This way, please."

He led them through a long, wood-paneled hallway into a parlor furnished with wooden chairs and an ornate rug.

"Looks like a viewing room before a cremation," Dorian muttered, sitting on one of the uncomfortable, high-backed chairs.

Suddenly a man burst through a door at the side of the parlor. He was old – not as old as Seer Hana, more spritely than that, but still old enough that most of his hair was gray. It was also cut short and neat, and he wore a well-trimmed beard close to his face. He wore long, maroon robes and cylindrical cap.

He rounded the chairs, took Sinead by the shoulders and lifted her bodily with a joyful look on his face.

"You're alive!" He said it as if not expecting this. Then he hugged her tightly.

"I'm very confused," Sinead said, her voice muffled in his robes.

"Um, maybe you shouldn't be molesting our friend, guy?" Krem said cheerfully, though his voice held an edge.

"It's okay Krem," Cole said with a sigh, holding his aching head. The whispers from this man were very loud. Not whispers, really. "He knew her mother."

Gemeinhardt pushed a very surprised Sinead away and gave her a once-over. "Maker's breath, do you look like her. Not in the face, that's probably all your father, have the elven features in the chin, the cheekbones. But those eyes are all Glidda. And that hair!"

"Forgive me, but my mother never spoke of you." Sinead slipped from his grasp and straightened her tunic. "Neither did Eluard."

"Of course they didn't. Or wouldn't. I was a last resort. Am a last resort. You wouldn't be here if something didn't go horribly wrong. But I've proof that I'm to be trusted." He stole to a corner of the parlor and started digging in a desk. "I'm supposed to show you the proof. See, your mother and I come from the same family line. Which means you do, too. Very old line – apparently we're descendants of a couple of slaves, one Elvhen one Neromenian. No one important, but both part of some very old uprisings. You're the last on your mother's side, my granddaughter is the last on mine. Lots of lasts, lots of lasts. Very sad when a line doesn't propagate, don't you think? I suppose we can't all be Pentaghasts. Ah!"

He pulled a sheathed knife from the drawer and walked proudly to Sinead. He pulled it from the leather sheath, and presented it to her hilt first. Sinead took it, examining the blade.

"Ironbark?"

"The same," he said, smiling. "The brother to your hairpins. Which, I see, you are wearing. Haven't seen those in some time."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. My mother never spoke of –" she stopped and looked at Cole. "Wait. Is this the knife you told me about? The one the Elvhen smith made?"

Cole nodded. "It sings the same story."

"So we're…cousins of a sort?" Sinead brightened. "I have…I have family?"

"Well, I wouldn't presume to call myself your family," Gemeinhardt demurred. "We are cousins many,  _many_  times removed. The old family story of the knife changed over the years – some nonsense about a devoted disciple of Andraste. I'm Andrastian, of course, but even as a youth I questioned why a Nevarran Andrasian would have an ironbark knife. It was Eluard who led me to its true origins."

He settled in a chair across from Sinead and motioned for her to sit.

"Eluard found me when I was still a relatively young man. Said he was looking for someone who would be a friend of his friends. I was just starting to rise through the ranks of the Mortalitasi, had a young family, but I always had an itch for adventure so I traveled to Antiva with him. That's where I met Glidda and Marcus. Nicest young couple of rogues you'd ever meet."

Sinead was excited. It came from her in bursts. Usually Cole would consider this a wonderful thing, but it did not help his headache. Those prisoners were so  _loud_. It was getting harder and harder to block them.

"Did you know them well?" Sinead handed the knife back to Gemeinhardt.

"Not your father as well as I would have liked, to be honest. He was a happy-go-lucky sort. Didn't take much stock in Eluard's warnings of an old foe. Glidda kept him in line mostly. Didn't miss a trick, that one. When I met them, and found them to be the kind of people I'd be willing to help, that's when old Eluard let me in on his little plan – I'm the unexpected element." He smiled. "I doubt the old foe knows anything about me. I was to provide a safehouse if your mother or father experienced trouble with that foe. When your father was killed, Eluard sent Glidda here."

"Why? I thought the Crows killed my father."

"Oh, they did. Apparently when he found out Glidda was pregnant, the poor lad had an idea to steal something that would keep your parents, and you, well situated for some time. It worked out for you and your mother. Not so much for him. And the commotion it caused caught the notice of some of the old foe's people. And so –" he lifted his hands. "Glidda came here. Welcome to your birth home."

Sinead was stunned. "I was born in the  _Necropolis_?"

"How ominous," Dorian said. "You would think you'd have developed a penchant for black eyeliner."

Gemeinhardt laughed. "I doubt her mother would have allowed any sort of gloom in her house. Even when she was clearly mourning Marcus, she wasn't one to brood. More an angry sort. Took my wife, may she rest in peace, time to warm to her, and my wife was sunlight on a midwinter day."

"She thought Sinead was yours," Cole prompted dully. Someone, somewhere, was screaming in their mind. He wished guards wouldn't let their prisoners go mad.

"Ah, well, you're not wrong in your assumption. But when she realized that Glidda was clearly missing her own man, well. Turned that relationship right around. They became fast friends. My wife wept when your mother left us. Gave you many kisses. You called her auntie."

"I…how long was I here?"

"Oh, you were nearly two years old when Eluard said it was time for her to move on. Somewhere remote, he said. Easier to look for spies. Had no idea where you went. Couldn't trade letters, even, just in case." He gave her a sad smile. "I always wondered what became of Glidda and her little girl. Always hoped they wouldn't be too lonely wherever Eluard pocketed them away."

"Not too lonely." Sinead blinked rapidly, trying to keep her eyes from tearing up. "Mother…she didn't tell me any of this. I…maybe she was going to, I was still young, I…she was killed at the beginning of the Blight. It's…been difficult since. Not always, but. Well, I sometimes think if she had lived, things may not have gone the same for me." She laughed a little, sadly, running a hand over her dead arm.

Cole looked up, pushing the prisoners away. She was saying thoughts she never said. Never, not even to him, because of the hurt. She knew he knew and that was enough. This was…different.

"Ah." Gemeinhardt leaned over and patted her on her hand. "I understand. I am so sorry. She was a wonderful person."

"Yes, she was." She wiped the wet from her eyes. Cole placed a hand on her shoulder and she gave him a watery smile.

Gemeinhardt cleared his throat. "Well! I had instructions for what should happen if you ever contacted me. You have a message, I think?"

Sinead pulled the memory crystal from her pocket. Gemeinhardt took it, made a small cut on his thumb with the ironbark knife, pressed his thumb against the cube and said, "Albert."

The cube went bright silver, and Eluard's image appeared within. "Hello, Albert. As you can see, the child has grown up. Rather well, I should think. The old foe has discovered her, unfortunately. She must be sent my way. Give her what she needs. Thank you, old friend."

The cube flickered to blue.

"Well! Never was one to mince words, was Eluard. I'll be back in a moment."

Gemeinhardt handed the cube to Sinead and left the room. Everyone was quiet for a time.

"Are you okay?" Krem asked.

"I don't know." Sinead turned the memory crystal around in her hand. "It's a lot to take in."

"Tell me about it," Dorian quipped. "I feel like I've stumbled upon a soap serial in a dishy magazine with every stop we make on this journey."

"Ha. Yes." The darkness was edging her thoughts. Cole's heart sank. "My mother and Eluard kept so much from me as a child. Part of me understands – I doubt it would have helped for me to know about Titus, or secret safehouses, or routes to safety, and Eluard was always in and out. Maybe he thought keeping an eye on me was enough."

"But he made you think you were all alone." Tal-Ashkaari's voice was pained. "How could he care for you as he claims in that crystal when he did such a thing? Forced you to discover your connection to others on your own without guidance? To do that to a youth is irresponsible and unacceptable."

"Yes, it was. Perhaps when we find him, I'll be able to ask him that myself." A true smile came from Sinead now. "Then again, many youths experience things that are irresponsible and unacceptable. I'm nothing special in that regard. Though it helps to know there are people who care enough to think of it that way."

Tal-Ashkaari tried to cover up her bashfulness by flipping through her notebook. She was, as always, taking notes of the meeting. "I am simply stating a truth."

Gemeinhardt returned then, carrying a small wooden box. "Here we are, the secret of secrets." He opened the box and pulled out a vial set on a thick silverite chain. Within the vial was a bit of blood.

Sinead gasped. "A phylactery! This can't possibly be –"

"Oh, it is." He lowered the chain over Sinead's head. "I told you, I'm the last resort. The unexpected element. He wants you to find him? Well. Now you can find him, no matter where in Thedas he's tucked himself away."

Sinead turned the vial in her hand, then tucked the chain beneath her shirt. "Thank you so much, ser – I mean, Lord Gemeinhardt. Your help mean the world to me."

"Oh well. It's just good to see what's become of little Naddy." He clapped his hands. "Well! Usually in the stories, this is where the adventurers say goodbye and continue their journey, which you clearly are all on. However, I feel it's the perfect time for cake, if you'll have it."

"I, for one, think cake is an excellent idea," Krem said. The others concurred, a bell was rung, and conversation began.

Tal-Ashkaari sat next to Gemeinhardt and started interviewing him, to his delight. "I can only say so much," he warned. "Trade secrets. But ask away, my dear, and we'll go from there."

Dorian, Krem and Sinead began discussing practical matters – the acquisition of horses, clearing out of the hotel quickly, gathering supplies. Sinead pulled out the vial and pointed it in various directions until it started to glow slightly.

"Looks like he's somewhere to the northeast," she said. "Rather far, too – the light is dim."

"Aw, Andraste's tits. That probably means he's somewhere in Tevinter. If we have to pass through the Silent Plains, we'd better be well stocked."

Cole did not speak. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The screams were getting louder somehow. How could they be louder? They were no worse than the other wails, no more pushy. And the prisoner was no closer than they were before…right?

No, wrong. This prisoner was certainly closer. He took a peek at them, trying his best to ignore his aching head.

 _No, please, I don't, stop, it hurts, the pulling, stop pulling, I didn't want, I won't, please_  help me –

His eyes flew open. That voice. He knew that voice. He stood and walked to the door Gemeinhardt had come through.

"Excuse me, young man, if you're looking for the privy –"

Cole cut Gemeinhardt off. "She's hurting. I need to help."

Sinead stood quickly. "Cole?"

He ignored her and went through the door, through a study, his pace hastening as he walked through another door into a wide morgue laboratory. Two mages, Mortalitasi, were hovering over a preserved body lying on a wooden table. Magic flowed from them and around them – they did not hear him enter, so concentrated they were in their work.

The screaming was coming from them – not from them, because of them. They were pulling at her, forcing her through the veil, the little spirit too young to have chosen a name, the mischievous one from his dreams the night before. She had followed him here, followed him to this place for a bit of fun, and got caught in the mages' summoning spell, and now she clawed at the Fade, trying desperately not to be taken, to be bound to this dead thing, to wander dark catacombs and wait for the body to disintegrate into dust.

 _Help me_ , she cried. Help  _me_!

Cole ran at the mages as Sinead entered the room.

"Wait!" she screamed, throwing barriers on everyone as Cole knocked one of the mages to the ground.

There was an explosion of power. Glass shattered, loose items on tables smashed into the walls, the standing mage and Sinead were thrown on their backs, and the whole foundation of the manor shuddered.

The spirit went free, gasping her thanks to Cole once before running off deep into the Fade and away from this terrible place.

Gemeinhardt came running into the room, followed by Dorian, Krem and Tal-Ashkaari. He pulled off his hat when he saw the damage to his morgue. Leaning over and picking up a piece of glass, he said, "I…well, I would like an explanation. If you please."

Sinead groaned and staggered to her feet, limping over to Cole, who still held on to the mage, pressing him to the ground. "Something must be terribly wrong," she said with a deep frown.

He was so angry. So very angry. He shook the mage. "Why? Why did you keep pulling her? Couldn't you hear her screaming?"

"What?" the mage looked confused, wide-eyed. "I – you mean the spirit? They're sometimes a little testy, but –"

Cole pressed his face against the mage's. "You were hurting her. And you didn't  _care_."

"Master Gemeinhardt?" The second mage pushed himself to standing against the wall. "I don't understand. Rikard was showing me the ritual as you told him to and –"

"Not as I said." There was fury in the Mortalitasi's voice. He marched over to Sinead and pulled Cole off Rikard, took the young mage by the collar, lifted him to sitting and slapped him, hard, twice across the face. "You tried to bond an unwilling spirit? Blasphemy!" He slapped Rikard again. "Have you done this before? Tell me, boy, or I swear I will ensure that you will never see the outside of a circle tower again, reforms or no!"

"I – I heard its common practice, and the willing spirits – they're harder to find so close to the Necropolis center and –"

"Under my roof!" Gemeinhardt thundered. He pulled Rikard to his feet and pushed him to the door. "Get your things and get out! OUT! You will never be Mortalitasi!"

Rikard fled the room, holding his bloodied mouth. Gemeinhardt panted, took a breath and calmed.

"I am sorry for that outburst," he said to his guests. "Harold, please leave us. I will discuss with you later the unclean ritual you were made a part of unwillingly."

"Yes, Master Gemeinhardt." The young man looked wide eyed at the crew and quickly left the room.

Gemeinhardt helped Cole to his feet. "How did you know what Rikard was doing? Are you a medium? I didn't take you to be a mage, but then I didn't mean to assume…"

Cole was not listening. The prisoners. He knew now who they were – praying, pleading, imploring, weeping, screaming beneath his feet, all of them,  _all of them_ , were spirits. Trapped, tortured, trudging through the dark, in this solid world against their will.

He whimpered and held his head, staggering from the room. "I…so many. I…have to help."

"Cole?" Sinead tried to block him, but he weaved around her.

Krem took hold of his arm. "Okay, we'll help," he soothed. "Who are we helping?"

He could not say. Now that he knew, the voices flooded him, making it difficult to think, and he could not block them. No, would not – how could he? No one had ever listened to them before, their helplessness, their hurt.

Krem snapped his fingers in front of Cole and got no reaction. He could see, he could hear, but he could not speak. It was too much. Too much.

"We should bring him back to the hotel." Sinead was worried – afraid that the illness had manifested again. He should tell her that was not it. It was so much worse. But his lips refused to move. "Thank you so much again for your help."

"And thank your young man for his help, when he comes around. Probably just the magic that addled him a bit. To think! I had a snake in my garden and never knew."

* * *

Back at the hotel Krem sat Cole down on a chair near the windows and tried again to break him out of his catatonia.

"Work with me here," he said. "I want to help you help, but I have to know who or what we're going after."

Sinead checked him over and shook her head. "He's fine physically." She was troubled. "I…I think I know this. I've  _been_  here. Something about that ritual turned his head in a bad way."

"Well, we can't very well leave town with him like this," Dorian said. "And just when he was back to his old spritely self! Hangover notwithstanding."

Cole sat up straight. "Can't leave. Not yet. Have to…but how? So many…"

"Right." Sinead kneeled in front of him, drew her knife, took it by the blade and pressed her hand against his, cutting into them both. She hissed and dropped the knife, and clasped his injured hand.

"What are you doing," Dorian said, alarmed. "This had better not be big blood magic."

"Not too big." Sinead's eyes began to glow. "But I have to  _see_."

She pulled at his thoughts, feeling them for herself. Her eyes went wide and her grip tightened.

"Maker's – I – there's thousands. Thousands!"

"Thousands? Thousands of what? Of who?" Krem pressed.

"Spirits. Like the one that stupid apprentice tried to bond. Some…have been here a long time…common practice…unwilling…Maker, their minds scream…"

Tears streamed from her eyes from the pressure of the voices.

"Is that what's wrong?" Dorian asked. "He feels for these spirits."

"Yes. And. The one today, the one – there was a dream. He thinks…it was almost caught, almost his fault, he – I can't let him –"

She furrowed her brow. And then, she  _took_. He felt a tug, a tear, a theft.

And the voices became whispers. And he was not sure why they had been so loud, but they had been. And something had happened at the Mortalitasi's house. Something terrible. And there were spirits somewhere who needed help, and he would help them someday, he would – but why?

He blinked. Something was missing. There was a hole in his memory.

He pulled his hand from Sinead's. "You  _took_."

"Yes." She was tired. She healed their cuts and picked up her knife.

"Excuse me, what did you do?" Dorian was distressed.

"She took a thought or a memory or an idea," Cole said, shocked. "You can't take what's mine from me. It's what makes me  _me_."

"You messed around with his memory?" Now Dorian was unhappy. "That's dangerous territory, my lady. Evil magister territory."

"That memory was the catalyst for his episode. I had to take it away to help."

She did not know. Did not see. He tried again, knowing that if he said the words right, she would understand.

"You wanted to help, but helping by taking without knowing harms as much as it helps. You have to ask, have know that it's okay to take first."

"Well, you weren't exactly in a position to answer questions," she said, sheathing her knife and standing.

She still was not understanding. She felt she was right, but was so very wrong.

"But if you don't know, then you won't know what I need to be me," he said earnestly.

"It worked, you're not sitting without speaking, it's done," she said. "And I don't need a lecture from someone who has pressed his thoughts on  _me_  without asking."

He stood and narrowed his eyes. "I didn't ask because I knew you wouldn't mind because I know your mind. You can't know like I know. You  _have_  to ask."

She was irritated. "It was a necessary removal! A quick incision! I don't ask every time I heal a person whether or not they want their limb to stop bleeding out or their bones to stop being not whole. Oh, pardon me, you seem to have a stab wound, do you mind very much if I clean that up for you? Ridiculous."

Now he was angry. "Taking, rearranging, telling yourself it's to help. That's what the demons do. That's what the Nightmare did."

"I'm no demon," she snapped. "I knew what I was doing. It was for the best!"

"No, he has a point," Dorian said crossing his arms. "You do this now, fine. But where does it end, hm? How many little steps will you take before you find yourself on a dark path?"

"Maker's balls, man, stay out of it," Krem muttered, glancing between Cole and Sinead.

Sinead turned on Dorian. "Would you prefer he still be sitting in the chair with that look of horror on his face? Is that what you want?" She whipped back to Cole. "Is that what  _you_  want? Because if you want your bloody memory back you can bloody well have –"

"You can't take without asking!" he shouted, stepping up to her, face in hers. Fury sparked within him, hot, terribly hot, eyes shining in the heat, teeth grinding, hands clenched.

She reeled back, stunned. Then she hardened her gaze, staring him down.

Krem whistled.

"I must pick up my boots," Tal-Ashkaari said to no one in particular, walking out of the suite.

Dorian's disconcertion dissipated, cooled. He raised his brows. "All right, now. Things got a bit heated. I'm sure Sinead understands and wants to apologize. Isn't that right, Sinead?"

"It isn't," Cole snapped, tapping his temple. "It's all excuses, reasoning, defenses, explanations, nothing that means  _anything_."

"You don't like what's in my mind?" she hissed. "Fine. Stay. Out."

There were druffaloes, herds of them pushing against each other in her thoughts.

She turned to Krem. "We have to send a message to the Inquisitor about the spirits here. There's far too many for us to even begin to help. And someone must.  _Someone_  must."

"What?" Krem's shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. We're already on thin ice – been here two weeks, and yesterday your little meeting may have blown our whole cover."

"It's one message! One crow! For Maker's sake, the chances of a message from us being intercepted among the thousands of crows sent out every day must be minimal!"

"Minimal but not zero," Krem shot back. "We can send the message after the mission's done."

"But –"

"Damn it, are you  _serious_?" He raised his voice, his abundant patience finally stretched to the limit. "You said some of those spirits have been stuck here for ages. They can wait a little longer! You are –" he rubbed his hands through his hair in exasperation. "You are just really, really terrible at this whole adventuring thing, you know that?"

"I know!" she screamed, boiling over. "I get it! I'm terrible! I've made an arse of myself more than once! But I'm not the bloody person who asked for this stupid bloody nonsense situation! I was dragged away in the night from the one place I've felt safe in ten bloody years, I've been made to hop around the continent like a piece on a bloody chessboard, I've got a madman who wants to breed me like a prize goat looking for me, and people keep almost dying or being cut down in my presence! I don't want any of this stupid fucking bloody 'adventure' any longer!"

She stormed into her room and slammed the door.

"Ah, shit." Krem rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm done. I'm going to go see a man about some horses and supplies." He left, muttering under his breath.

Dorian cleared his throat. "Well. Looks like everyone's a little on edge." He nodded at Sinead's door. "I imagine you'll want to talk to her."

"No."

"I – really?"

Cole clenched and unclenched his hands. "She doesn't stop when she thinks she's right. She needs to see, needs to  _know_  she's wrong."

"Well. That's not very compassionate," Dorian quipped.

"I'm not just Compassion anymore, I'm me!" he snapped. "And I'm allowed to be angry!"

"Oh! No, I wasn't trying to –"

"It doesn't matter," he cut in, sitting heavily at the table and holding his still aching head. "It's not about you."

"Apparently not. Well." Dorian sauntered into is room. "I'll just. Pack then."

Cole stared at the bowl of fruit the hotel staff had left in place of the breakfast platters. He very much wanted to throw it at something and watch it shatter, but decided against it – someone would have to clean up the mess, and the fruit would be ruined by the tiny shards of ceramic.


	17. Theft in the Night

There were few times in her life that Sinead had ever felt that she wanted to be truly alone. The first day out from Nevarra's capital was one of them – she insisted that she ride her own horse, figuring that she'd take whatever treatment it dished out gladly rather than ride with the person who made her feel so low that morning. And she positioned herself at the back of the group, letting the horse be led by the others, keeping herself out of range of conversation.

Somehow this avoidance of the crew made Cole even more frustrated at her. When they stopped for a stretch and a break, as he helped her down from the horse he said, "Pretending that you're alone won't make it go away."

"Make what go away?"

"The truth," he replied, edging close to her and keeping his voice low. "That you are  _wrong_."

Her anger flared. She kicked up her head and kept her face neutral. "Wrong about what?"

He gave her a long, hard look and turned away, leading his horse to a small rivulet near the road. His hands never stopped moving, clenching and unclenching. He did not speak to her for the rest of the day, avoiding even looking at her. She followed suit, though she avoided talking to anyone – the idea of conversation was soured in the face of her anger and hurt.

Because she was hurt – hurt by the implication that she was capable of going down a dark path, as Doran said. Hurt that Cole did not see that she could not handle seeing him in pain again. The memories of the pain he was in during his illness haunted her – the tossing and turning, muttering about the depth stealing him away, sweating and unseeing, gasping for breath, calling out for unseen people.

She had him back for a day, only a day, and then he was again lost in himself. She panicked, and did the only thing she could think of to end it quickly – she found the memory that started the mess, snatched it up and brought him back.

And then he chastised her. He  _yelled_  at her. Made her feel that wanting him safe and whole was the wrong choice, the selfish choice. But it was not wrong! How could he not see how important he was? It made her simmer, how he deliberately did not want to understand. He always understood! Why was this time a special case? She held on tight to the anger that first day, feeling righteous indignation at Cole's response to her quick thinking.

The second day, she was not so sure of herself. Her anger had fizzled and left a sad emptiness within her. The others had already regained their conversation, but she felt she could not join in – she had exiled herself, after all. She ate breakfast and packed up her bedroll in silence. When Krem gave her a boost onto her horse, she only nodded in response. And again she traveled at the back of the group.

It was a very long day, especially without the company of the others. Her own thoughts kept drifting to the day before, which gave her no comfort. Should she have been so hasty? What if she had taken more memory than she meant to? Or perhaps they should have simply left Nevarra and solved the problem with distance? Then Cole would still remember the little spirit he saved, still know why he wanted to help the spirits trapped in the catacombs of Nevarra. Was it truly right to take a piece of him away without asking?

And did she not also hate the idea of her own memory being altered? The way she asked him to not make her forget when he was still too spirit to really understand? She had been hurting, too. Of course, he never stole her own memories unless they were memories of him – just erasing himself from her life, which he had found acceptable. He never made someone forget the memories that did not involve him, even if it hurt.

Her heart sank. Perhaps she was wrong.

But then she'd remember the lost look on his face before she took his memory, and rallied. No, she had done what was necessary. She had done what was  _right_.

Maybe.

No, she was right.

Then again, if it was right, why was Cole being so adamant about his position? He still did not speak to her, though his anger seemed to have also cooled. And he was clearly unhappy – hunched in his saddle, hat pulled over his eyes. No, he was not angry with her anymore. She caught him looking at her during breaks and midday meal, before he glanced away, and she recognized the look, that sad, hurt look – he was  _disappointed_. It made her flinch inwardly. Made her heart itch.

At the end of that long, unpleasant day of self-inflicted silence, the crew entered a small township that had grown around the old Tevinter Imperial Highway's Minanter River crossing. The sun was low in the sky, glowing red over the white stone of the many-arched bridge. People, carts, horses, and small herds of animals were on top of the massive structure, dwarfed by its size – they seemed to her like insects in the distance. Sinead pulled her horse to a halt, her troubles momentarily chased away at the sight of such an architectural marvel.

Krem glanced back and noticed her stopped in the middle of the road. He turned his horse around and walked it to her.

"It's something, isn't it?" He gave her a grin. It was the first thing he'd said to her since she'd lashed out at him the day before.

She nodded, giving him a hesitant smile. "It's incredible."

"Yeah. That's pretty much what I thought the first time I saw it. Hard to believe any country had their shit together enough to build something like that at one point, right? 'Course, I'm sure it was mostly built by slaves, but I guess everything's got its dark side."

She reddened, suddenly feeling very foolish with herself.

"Oh, that wasn't a – hey, yesterday was tense, okay? Lots of shit to take in, hang overs, uh, magic explosions. Everyone has their off days."

"No. I shouldn't have lost my temper. Not like that. It was foolish. I was imprudent." She pushed her horse into walking. "I'm sorry."

Krem kept pace with her. "Well, apology accepted. But, ah, you know I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, right?"

She did not reply.

"Right. Listen, I'll only say it once, because, you know. Not really my business, and I'm not exactly an expert on magic, let alone whatever it is you did to Cole. But I think I've been around the kid long enough to know a little bit about how his mind works. I figure, you know, if  _he's_  got a problem with something you've done, maybe  _you're_  the one who should think twice about your actions, kind of thing?"

She frowned at him.

"Okay, then." He shrugged. "Like I said, not really my business. Um. So, we still going in the right direction?"

Sinead welcomed this redirection in their conversation and pulled the phylactery out from under her shirt. "I believe so. You're right, we'll have to cross the river."

"Damn. Here's hoping we have to take a hard turn east before the Silent Plains. Well, no use starting across the bridge today – light's about to go. Might as well stop here for the night."

He rode to the front of the crew again and led them to a large inn. As they stabled the horses, removing the kit they'd need for the night from their saddlebags, Krem and Cole helping the stable hands remove the saddles from the horses, Sinead mulled over Krem's words.

It was something she had refused to consider in her righteous explanations to her herself – Cole's instincts about what was and was not hurtful was usually spot on, naturally. He may be black and white about what to do in response to those actions, though he was learning to see the gray, but  _knowing_  hurt was his whole raison d'être. If he saw the taking of his memory as a hurt…

She was finding fewer and fewer reasons to consider her actions within the right.

She approached Cole as he brushed down one of the horses, fiddling with the buckles on her brace. An action that made Tal-Ashkaari's eyes widen.

"I wish to see what they have prepared for the evening meal at this location," she said a little too loudly, shouldering her pack.

Dorian gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm as curious as you are. Hopefully something more appetizing than almost-rotten-vegetables-and-gamey-mutton-stew. Let's find out together, shall we?" He took the Qunari woman's arm in his own and led her from the stables.

"Are you looking forward to a hot meal? A bed?" Sinead said, kicking herself at how high her voice pitched.

Cole's hand stopped, brush hovering over the horse's coat.

"I'm not going inside the inn. It reminds me too much of a tavern. And hangovers." He shuddered. He continued brushing down the horse.

"Oh." Her stomach sank.

He gave her a side glance as he moved down the horse's flank. "I think I'm going to sleep by the river," he said carefully. "It's farther from the light of the town. I can see the stars better that way."

"Oh?" Her heart lifted. It was an invitation, she knew it was. But still he would not look at her.  _Apologize_ , one half of her said.  _Not until he understands_ , the other half demanded.

Tentatively she let her druffaloes go, freed her thoughts, the mishmash of feelings, the reasonings, the doubt, the fear she had for him, the worry, the flicker of the stolen memory…

He stiffened and frowned, giving her a pained look. "It's still mostly excuses," he muttered, tossing the brush in a bucket and picking up his pack. "Why don't  _you_  understand?"

He stalked out of the stable. She felt like a failure.

"Everyone else gets to have excuses with him," she said under her breath. "Why can't I?"

"Because you're not everyone else to him." She jumped as Krem poked his head around the stall. "I mean, that's pretty obvious."

"It's not very fair of him."

"I don't remember anyone calling him Fairness," Krem said with a shrug. "Just give him another day and try again tomorrow. He's pretty mopey. Probably will crack soon now that he's seen you start." He took her by the shoulders and led her out of the stables. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. Not ale."

The inn's tavern was crowded with travelers, mostly merchants traveling to and from Tevinter. Richly dressed spice and jewelry kings sat next to rough-garbed tinkerers and purveyors of odds and ends. Sinead and Krem joined Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari at the end of a long communal table.

"No Cole I see," Dorian said, shaking his head. "Pity. I do so love the way he describes what's in the minds of the local color."

"I must apologize for my reaction to your recent altercations with Cole." Tal-Ashkaari nodded at Sinead. "I am not comfortable with confrontation. You may now tell me how wrong he is if you wish."

Sinead blushed while the men shuffled awkwardly.

"We usually don't mention our discomfort at couple's spats here in Southern Thedas," Dorian said kindly. "Usually we just talk loudly at each other until it's finished and then we pretend it never happened."

Tal-Ashkaari looked bemused. "But when comes the colleagues' bolstering of their friend, claiming their reasoning in the argument is correct, even if it is not and the colleagues disagree with their friend's position? I have heard that such intrapersonal interactions are necessary in this part of the world."

"Oh, yes, that." Dorian waved a hand. "Really only happens when the colleagues aren't friends with both parties. In this case, we've been put into the position of choosing sides."

"Ah." Tal-Ashkaari nodded. "Nevermind, then, Sinead."

Sinead sank her head into her hand. "So all of you disagree with me."

"Yes."

"Yup."

"Oh, in so many ways. But I won't count them all right now. I am a man of some class."

All of her righteousness burned away in that moment, leaving her feeling hollow and horrified at herself. She was wrong. She was  _wrong_. She had taken a memory from one of the people she cared most for in the world, stole it from his head and called it a good thing. She pressed her hand over her face in shame.

"What am I going to do?" she said mournfully. "How can I make it right?"

"Ah, and so regret descends upon the transgressor." Dorian patted her on the back. "Worry not, I think the self-flagellation is a good start."

A small, fat man in an apron waddled over to their end of the able, giving them all a cheery smile. "Name's Johan, and I'm the owner of this establishment. Dinner for the lot of you? Drinks?"

"Both," Krem said. "And get the young woman a cup of wine. She needs it."

"Of course." He eyed Dorian's staff leaning against the table. "You all mages? We get a lot coming through since the Templar-Mage War ended. Only ones tonight, though."

"Just half of us are so blessed," Dorian said, crossing his arms and nodding at Krem and Tal-Ashkaari. "Those two aren't so lucky."

"So you say, ser, so you say. Just the dinner and drinks, or will you be staying in our humble rooms tonight?"

"Two rooms if we can get them," Krem said, looking around the tavern. "Looks like a full house."

"Not to worry, we'll find something," the innkeeper said quickly. "Annette!" He flagged down a scrawny girl who looked to be in her late teens carrying a tray of empty mugs. A nervous look crossed over her face before she approached the innkeeper.

"Yes, papa?"

"These folks need two rooms. See if Halbert can fit them in somewhere."

She glanced at the crew. "We're very full papa," she said in a small voice.

The innkeeper's smile grew. "I'm sure we've got something available. Go talk to Halbert and see."

The girl nodded and scurried away.

The innkeeper clapped his hands and smiled. "Now, I'll see about your dinner. You people enjoy yourselves." He walked off with a whistle.

"He sure does want our money," Krem said. "We're about to be shoved in a couple of closets, I bet."

"I'll take closets over the hard ground, so long as the mattress is clean." Dorian rolled his shoulders. "My back demands it."

Dinner was delicious – a cut of roasted meat, crusty bread, boiled and creamed greens, and mashed turnip. Sinead reveled in this hearty fare, some of her shame and guilt relieved by the pleasure of a good meal. The wine also helped.

The rooms were also far more decent than expected – small but not cramped, holding two sets of bunks each.

"I will not have to sleep on the top tonight," Tal-Ashkaari said, pleased, as she removed her masterwork wyvern-skin boots. "Due to your handicap, it is necessary that I make such a concession. But it is unnerving when my feet hang off the edge and do not touch solid ground."

"Why haven't you said so?" Sinead pulled out her pins and undid her braid. "I thought you  _liked_  the top bunk! I am capable of climbing up and down a ladder, you know. It just takes a little more time."

"You can?" The Qunari woman blinked. "I had not thought to ask."

Sinead laughed. "You can be very silly sometimes. In the best way, of course," she said quickly. She felt tipsy. The wine was not that strong, was it? "Actually, I very much enjoy your company."

"You do? That is good to know." Tal-Ashkaari fumbled with the laces on her travel tunic. "I have few friends back home. They say I ask too many questions. I would be honored to count you among one of – these laces are tied too tightly. My hands cannot undo them." She gave up and took a knife from her already undone belt and placed them against the laces.

"Isn't that going a bit far?" Sinead said with a giggle. Everything was amusing. The look on Tal-Ashkaari's face was even more amusing as she realized what she was doing.

"I feel strange," the Qunari said, setting her knife down. "Heavy."

"Heavy?" Come to think of it, she also felt heavy. Like her body was sinking into the mattress. She yawned, and her eyes felt unable to stay open.

Tal-Ashkaari was swaying. She tried to stand, but her body refused to support her and she ended up falling to the floor. She leaned against the bunk and closed her eyes. "This is not…right…" she slurred.

"I think…I think we've been poisoned…" Sinead said thickly. She crawled slowly across the mattress and reached into her pack at the end of the bed, reached for her herb kit.

And then the darkness flooded her.

* * *

He woke early in the morning, when all was darkness save for a strip of light blue on the horizon. River creatures' croaks reverberated against the dark, shadowed bridge in the distance. He sat up with a sigh, rubbing his eyes, wondering why he woke so early.

Then he realized – his mind was empty. Not empty, not really, he always had the feelings of people around him pressing against him. But he could not hear four very specific heads, not their dreams, not their desires, not their dreads, not their herds of druffaloes.

He jumped up, threw on his coat, buckled on his knives, picked up his bedroll and pack and shoved his hat on his head. Then he ran into the village, tossing his things beneath someone's porch on his way to the inn. He stopped at the entrance, then took a few steps back. Something was very wrong. Memories of those who went through the door but never came back out rubbed against him. He ran around the building to the kitchen entrance, trying the door and finding it unlocked.

He snuck into the large, spotless kitchen, creeping close to the floor toward the door into the tavern on the far side of the room. The light from the banked fire flickered over the work tables and shelves and a pile of bedding in a corner that held two small children and an older girl. He had nearly made it to the door when he blinked and looked over at the children.

Their dreams were dark, especially those of the older girl. He dug deeper into her mind, feeling her fear, her father's hands against her face, her back, her legs, his screams, her brother and sister crying, the way the men he worked with leered at her, asked for her, but not yet, not yet, her father said, not without more coin…

He moved to her and shook her. Her eyes popped open, used to late night demands on her attention, but instead of her father's angry red face it was a stranger staring at her, a stranger, her father had sold her at last. She opened her mouth to scream, but he clapped her hand over her mouth.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "Never, never. Where is your father?"

She shook her head, eyes still wide and scared, but he could see the room she knew he was in, upstairs, large, an office of sorts where he worked on the books with his cohorts.

"Did you see my friends? A qunari and a nice young man and a man who talks and a woman with one good arm?"

Now she looked pained. Guilt flooded her, and fear, and worry, and sadness – the mages who slept in the special rooms, the rooms set aside for them, her father's friends carrying them out down the servants' stairway, he slapping her face when he spied her peeking out the back door as they loaded the bodies into a cart driven by a hooded man, saying "you tell no one of this! No one! Or I'll wring your neck!" And the people who would come asking after friends and family and old colleagues, sad, worried people, wondering where their loved ones were…she was too afraid to tell, too afraid…

His chest tightened with dread. But her fear and her sadness moved him. "It's not your fault," he said, moving his hand to her cheek. "You didn't steal them away. It's hard to be brave when you're afraid."

She was confused, and so afraid. "How did you know?"

"Because I know." He slipped his hand away and moved toward the door.

She caught his arm. "Where are you going?"

"To stop your father."

"But they'll hurt you!"

He shook his head and gently removed her hand. "No. They won't."

He ran through the kitchen door, padded into the darkened tavern and silently scaled the stairs. The girl was slinking after him slowly, whisper-calling for him to wait as he moved to the end of the hall to a door with a light shining under the crack. He could feel satisfaction, annoyance, want, desire rolling from the room. He carefully picked the lock, making the clicks of the tumblers as quiet as possible.

He looked back at the girl, who stood at the top of the stairs, holding on to the bannister, rigid with fright. She was not going to have a good day. He would have to do something about that. He stood and opened the door.

There were three men within, three very surprised men – one fat and squat, one thin and tall, and one covered in hair everywhere but his head. They sat at a table, sorting through a pile of goods, divvying them up between them. Cole spied one of Dorian's books, Tal-Ashkaari's boots and Sinead's pins in the pile. His hands became fists.

"Who in Andraste's quim are you?" the fat one said, rising from his chair. The innkeeper. He recognized his face and ugly thoughts from the girl's memories.

"Those aren't your things," he said with a low voice. "Where are my friends?"

The hairy one sneered at the innkeeper. "Damn it, Johan, I told you the extra horse meant there was another in the group."

"Shut it, Halbert." The innkeeper smiled at Cole. "Listen, lad, I'm a reasonable man. I'll let you walk away right now with part of this taking, no questions asked. Or, you could go to the guard and find yourself without a head – we've a special kinship with them here. Your choice."

He was stalling, trying to distract him, to keep him from running. The tall man already had his sword half drawn, the hairy one was cocking a crossbow beneath the table.

He drew his blades as the tall man rushed him, throwing a knife at the hairy man and hitting him square in the throat. He fell sideways with a gurgle, his useless bolt burying into the rug at his feet. The tall man swung his sword at Cole's center. He jumped back into the hallway, dodging the blow, then dropped to his hands and feet and jumped forward into the man's legs, grabbing him behind the knees and knocking him off balance. The tall man fell back, knocking his head on the table. Cole rolled out of the way as the man hit the floor, then took his knife in both hands and plunged it into the man's heart.

He stood and looked again at the innkeeper, hands speckled with a spray of blood, walking slowly around the table. The fat man's face was a mask of fear. He lifted his hands in the air.

"Easy now," he said, keeping his voice light. "We've had a small miscommunication. Those men, well. They had me on a spit – you saw them, they were roughs. Threatened to kill me if I didn't agree –"

"Liar." The man stumbled back as Cole reached his side of the table. "You had the idea. No one misses mages – they're thought of as murderers, marauders, I can make a little money from them, a little coin. Monster." Cole lunged, took the man by his tunic and pressed the knife to his throat. "Where are my friends?"

There were images mixed with emotion, smug pride, a job well done, a deal well made – men in plate armor, a keep, a road –

"You ride due east for a couple hours," the man stuttered. "Heinendurg Keep's where they're headed. But you won't catch the cart before they get there! They left over an hour ago!"

"Thank you." Cole slit the fat man's throat and let him go. His eyes bugged out in surprise and he grabbed at his severed neck, uselessly trying to staunch the flow of blood. He fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

Cole stepped over the innkeeper's body, took his knife back from the hairy man's throat, wiped the blades off on the man's back and sheathed them. He looked up at the girl, whom he knew had been standing at the door for some time now. Her hand was pressed hard over her mouth, her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry," he said. "He wouldn't have stopped. He'd get another crossbow, another sword." He kicked at the floor. "Another rug."

The girl nodded. She swallowed and wiped her arm over her face. "What am I to do? What are  _we_  to do? Audrea and Ronald –"

"I want to help." He walked quickly to her, pushed her out of the room, then kneeled and used his tools to lock the door. "I want to, but I can't. Not now. I have to find my friends. But I will. Keep quiet, tell no one, don't go to the guard – they worked with your father. I promise, I'll be back very soon." He stood and took the girl by the arms. "I promise."

There was a flutter of faith in the girl's chest. A small, fragile trust. She nodded, still afraid, but willing to hope.

"Thank you."

He gave her a hug, then ran from her, taking the stairs by twos, ran through tavern and kitchen, circled around the inn to the stables. Quickly he kitted one of the horses up and led him outside.

"I need you to go fast," he said, as he mounted the horse. "Faster than you've ever run before. Please."

The horse was more than willing. Cole kicked him into a run, and the horse dashed down the path due east as dawn began to break.


	18. The Race

She opened her eyes to darkness. Rattling, rumbling darkness. Something was covering her head, blocking the light. Her head felt muzzy, and her body ached. She was sitting against something hard and high. She tried to move, and found that her arms were trapped behind her and her ankles were bound together. Her fingers brushed against her wrist, feeling the cool metal of a manacle. Panic engulfed her, tight-chested, short-breathed panic. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, taking large, gasping breaths.

"Sinead?" someone whispered – Krem.

"Yes?" she replied, voice warbling.

"Oh, good, we're all awake then." Dorian sounded the most irritable that she had ever heard him. "Welcome to our kidnapping."

"You've been out for a while," Krem said. "Probably whatever potion they used on us hit you hardest. Felt like I drank too much ale before I realized something was wrong."

"It hit me fast and hard, yes. Where are we?"

"A cart," Tal-Ashkaari prompted. "The rattling is the wheels. We have been going in the same direction since I woke. No one has spoken outside the cart. I have heard the lowing of cows somewhere in the distance."

"So we don't know who has captured us?" Sinead's panic pounded down on her again, and she again had to catch her breath.

"We have some ideas," Krem said. He sounded all business – he had been the rescuer in such situations many times, after all. "At first we thought Titus caught up with us, but that's unlikely. He seemed pretty determined to take you alone last time we ran into him. Now we're thinking slavers. And that damned innkeeper was probably in on it. 'We can find room for you." Should have seen it from a mile away."

"Makes the most sense," Dorian said. "We are close to the border. Though why that bloody innkeeper decided to target us is a mystery."

"I believe it was my presence," Tal-Ashkaari said. "Surely an 'oxmaiden' would be a bounty for the Tevinters."

"Could be. Though from what I know, Qunari are seen as better without heads than as slaves," Dorian said archly.

"Oh, Maker." Sinead's head sank against her chest. "This is my fault. If Cole had been at the inn with us, he would have known something wasn't right."

"Hey, now. Only the people who took us are at fault. Cole didn't want to be at the inn at all," Krem said sternly. "If you two weren't fighting, the best outcome is maybe you'd be with Cole, wherever he is."

"Well, that's one good thing, anyway," Dorian said. "Cole's still out there. And if there's one person whom I trust to find us, it's him. He has a knack for that sort of thing. Not to mention the killing – he's very good at the killing. These slavers are in for quite the surprise."

"Are you sure they're slavers, though?" Sinead's head was spinning through their conversation with the innkeeper. She felt like she was missing something – something that was on the tip of her tongue. "Why did he ask about us being mages?"

"Mages catch a pretty penny as slaves in Tevinter," Dorian replied. "Train them up as indentured servants, and they're loyal to you for the rest of your lives. That's the thought, anyway, whether or not it's true. More than one enslaved mage has taken vengeance on their master in a most bloody fashion."

"I see." Sinead felt like it was not enough of a reason, but she could not figure out why. "So what do we do now?"

"Frankly, I'm fine with waiting for our rescue," Dorian said. "We've someone on the outside, he's a determined seeker, and he has a knack with picking locks and stabbing enemies. I say we keep calm and wait for our knight in unkempt armor."

"I don't know what else we can do," Krem said. "We're pretty much stuck until we see an opening. So long as they don't do a strip search, I'm fine with waiting."

"A strip search? Why would that –" Sinead stopped. She had completely forgotten Krem's physical reality. And then she realized why it would be a very bad thing for Krem if they did strip them down – a thing that neither she nor Tal-Ashkaari were safe from at the moment. She could not stay in this cart and wait for such a possibility.

Her mind sparked. She grabbed the manacle around her right wrist and started pushing it down her hand. It wiggled down about an inch, then refused to budge no matter how hard she pushed at it. She huffed in frustration and scooted away from the side of the cart, reaching out behind her until she found a leg. She ran her hand down until she reached the top of the leg's boot.

"Who do I have right now?"

"Ah, that would be me," Dorian said, somewhat amused. Or as amused as he could sound in their current situation.

"Right." She felt down to his foot and lifted it, then placed her dead hand under his heel. "I need you to stomp as hard as you can, please."

"Not that I'm against wandering hands down my legs followed by alluring demands, but can you please explain why exactly you need me to start stamping my feet?" She felt the manacle move against her left wrist as he pressed his heel against her dead hand. "What am I stepping on?"

"My hand. I need you to break it."

There was a brief pause, followed by a "No. No, I won't be doing that."

"Dorian, it's my dead hand. I won't feel a thing. If you break it, I think I can free it."

"And then what?"

"Well, I don't need a staff to do magic, but I do need a free hand," she said staunchly. "The right one might be useless, but my left hand isn't."

"Good idea," Krem said brightly. "Great idea! Better than waiting for the cavalry to show. If Dorian can't do it, I will."

"Does everyone still have boots on but me?" Tal-Ashkaari said suddenly. For the first time in their travels, she sounded irritated. "Those basra vashedan stole my boots."

"Well, they were really nice boots," Krem said sympathetically.

"Dorian, are you doing this or not?" Sinead said, impatient.

"Damn it, yes, yes, I'll mutilate your hand for you. I'm sorry that I have to mentally prepare myself."

He took a few deep breaths, then stomped on her hand hard enough to rattle the chain connecting the manacles. She felt her hand – it was still intact.

"Harder," Sinead said. "Put your whole weight into it."

He did it again, and again, each blow with more force than the last. There was a pop and a crackling noise.

"That was most unpleasant," Tal-Ashkaari said with distaste.

"Tell me about it. It was under  _my_  foot."

"It's all right. Like I said, I don't feel a thing." Sinead sat up and felt her right hand – it was certainly more pliable than before. She wiggled at the manacle. It caught midway down her hand. She squished her hand together, and slowly, slowly moved the manacle further down her hand.

The cart stopped, throwing them all backward.

"Who goes there?" a voice in the distance cried.

"Fernand," the driver called back. "New catch."

"Ho, Fernand! Mages or sinners?"

"Both, Louis. And a Qunari, if you'll believe it. The Knight Captain'll be pleased, I think."

"Open the gates!"

There was the creaking, clicking sound of chains on gears.

"Knight Captain?" Sinead whispered. "That doesn't sound like slavers to me. That's army or Templars."

"And that sounds like a portcullis," Krem said grimly. "Whatever gate they're opening, it's to something big. I think we're in more trouble than we thought."

The cart moved forward again. Outside there was the sound of steel against steel, the grunting of men, the rattling of armor. Sinead pressed harder at the manacle, but it eased no faster off her hand, slipping by millimeters.

The cart stopped again, and its doors were thrown open. She could see light through the weave of the bag over her head. Rough hands grabbed her by the arms, dragged her out of the cart and set her on her feet.

"Who the fuck are you?" She heard Krem say, followed by a soft impact.

"Don't speak to me, sinner," someone sneered.

"Move," a voice said, pushing her. She stumbled, and started to walk over what felt like hard packed earth, the manacles on her ankles jingling as she walked.

Someone called out "Soldiers! Assemble!" and there was a cacophony of rattling metal.

"Stairs." She stepped up, feeling at the stairs with her feet until she reached a wooden landing. An arm turned her around, and the bag was pulled from her head. She blinked and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light.

She was standing in line with the others, all of them bound by hand and foot, on a small raised wooden dais at the end of an open ward. Soldiers in plate mail stared up at them, about forty men in all – or men and boys. Some of the soldiers were not yet out of adolescence. A tall man with balding hair shorn close to his head was staring out at the soldiers, pacing slowly back and forth on the dais, hands behind his back. He had a hard face.

"Templars then," Krem said.

"It doesn't make sense," Dorian muttered. "What Templars are stealing people away in the night? Cassandra woudn't allow such a thing to happen."

Sinead looked up at the flags hanging over the ward – they held the abstract image of a crowned Andraste, surrounded by fire. Things clicked in place in her mind – a whispered conversation during the Inquisitor's Satinalia ball, the innkeeper's questions about their being mages.

"Andraste's Flames," she said. "They're Andraste's Flames."

"Who?" Krem asked.

"The mage hunters? Oh, no. Nononono, that can't be right. They're just a myth mages on the road tell each other for cheap scares," Dorian muttered. "Otherwise my nightmares have become reality."

Sinead started frantically working the manacle down her right hand again.

"Templars!" The hard man called out to the soldiers. "True followers of Andraste! Witness how the Maker has blessed us." He waved to the crew. "These sinners have been brought to us for judgment. With the Maker's blessing, we will guide them down a path to salvation. What does salvation require?"

"A walk through fire, Knight Captain!" the soldiers chanted as one.

"A walk through the cleansing fire." He motioned to two soldiers on the dais with him. The soldiers shoved Krem and Tal-Ashkaari forward. "Two people, two sinners who chose to travel with mages still openly practicing magic. What do these sinners need?"

"A walk through fire!"

The Knight Captain nodded and looked at Krem and Tal-Ashkaari. "For your sins, you are condemned to work for Andraste's Flames for ten years of service. You will do so without complaint and with silent subjugation. May the Maker bless your time in service and lead you down a righteous path."

"Templars take on slaves now?" Krem snapped. "What horseshit is this?"

" _Silent_  subjugation," the Knight Captain said, raising his voice. "Speak up again to me, man, and I will have your tongue." He nodded and Krem and Tal-Ashkaari were pulled back in line.

Sinead was pushed forward. The Knight Captain eyed her and looked at the soldier.

"Innkeeper said she was a mage," the soldier muttered. "But no one found a staff on her. Had some herbs in a pack. Might just be a healer that the innkeeper mistook for a witchy one."

"Hm." The Knight Captain looked to his gathered soldiers. "This woman has been accused of being a mage, but her status is ambiguous. We shall test her to ensure that she receives the correct punishment. If found innocent, she shall be pressed into service, and may the Maker bless her time in service and lead her down a righteous path."

Sinead was pulled back in line, still working her hand from the manacle. It was nearly free. If she got loose, then she could make short work of whatever holding pen they were placed in. Wait until dark, wait until they were no longer under watch, and they would be free.

Dorian was pushed forward. "I don't suppose I'll be let off with a mere decade of servitude?" he quipped.

"Silence, beast." The Knight Captain slapped him across the cheek with his gauntleted hand, splitting open Dorian's lip. He shook his head, stunned. "This creature, this demon in sheep's clothing, is brought before us for judgement. Not just a mage – a magister, wicked creature of Tevinter. His soul is a rotted, pitted thing plagued by the siren call of demons. He must be led to salvation. And what does salvation require?"

"A walk through fire, Knight Captain!" The voices of the rogue Templars rang off the walls.

"What does salvation require!?"

"A walk through fire!"

The Knight Captain eyed Dorian with disgust. "He will be freed from his burden through the Rite of Tranquility."

Sinead gasped and froze in horror.

Dorian's eyes widened. " _What_?"

"May the Maker bless him –"

"Oh, no. I won't allow it." Dorian lunged forward, but was caught by a soldier and dragged back.

"– and lead him down a righteous path. Take them away. Those three to the cellars, the Vint to the ritual chamber."

Soldiers took all of them by the arms, dragging them back down the dais. Two had Dorian, and he struggled with them, digging his heels against the platform, making his body into a dead weight.

"I won't allow it!" He cried. "You fucking bloody boys playing soldier, just try to get close to me with a brand! I'll see you burn first!"

Sinead's mind reeled. She could not allow Dorian to face Tranquility. Would not allow it. Would stop it, no matter the cost. She pressed the manacle down again, one last hard push. It slipped from her hand, freeing her. She dug her nails into her dead arm, scratching a long gash up to her elbow, and pulled at the blood. She unleashed a wave of power, throwing the men holding the four of them and the Knight Captain back. Dorian dropped to the platform, then struggled to his feet.

Another wave of power, and she threw a group of attacking Templars back.

"Let them go or I swear I will light this place on fire!" she snarled, holding out her hand to the fallen Templars. She closed it into a fist. The banners lining the ward burst into flame.

"Blood mage!" The Knight Captain roared. "Templars, rally!"

Suddenly, she felt numb. It was as if she had gone deaf and blind, though sight and sound were not lost to her. She blinked rapidly as she realized that the Templars had blocked her connection to the Fade, and to the power in her blood. Two men took her by the arms as she swayed on her feet. The Knight Captain crooked his finger, and the soldiers dragged her back on the dais. He took her chin in his hand and looked out at the assembled Templars, who were now in various states of surprise.

"Look and see, men," the Knight Captain said, squeezing her cheeks. "Look at the insidious nature of the blood mage. A beautiful face that holds darkness behind the eyes. How close we were to being fooled by the lie of her visage! Constant vigilance always, men! In the old days, we would have cut this creature down. But we seek forgiveness for the sinner!" He shoved her face away. "Take her to the ritual chamber. She will be the first to receive the Rite. Take the others to lockup."

Her heart stopped. She had done right. She had stopped Dorian from being the one they would make Tranquil, had given him more time. This is what she wanted. But as the soldiers dragged her down the dais, her whole body rejected her rationality.

"No," she said, struggling with the guards, who lifted her off her feet in response. "No!" She screamed. "You can't do this! Please!"

"I'm the Vint, remember?" She could hear Dorian arguing as they took the others in another direction. "In bed with demons, soul pitted? If anyone should be made Tranquil –"

"Don't worry, Sinead!" Krem called. "We'll get out of this! Just hold on!"

* * *

The keep rose out of a stand of stones on the flat plain, built close to a small, barren mount. Cole reined in the horse – the walls were high, and a great gate closed off the entry.

He kicked the horse into a canter, riding around the mount until he found a small path that led to its summit. Dismounting, he rubbed the horse's nose.

"I need to find my friends," he said. "I might not be back. You can go or stay, if you wish."

The horse nickered and brushed its nose against his cheek.

"Okay. But don't let them see you."

Cole crept carefully up the path, winding his way up the mount. At its top was a guard tower, with two guards on patrol – one at its base, the other in the lookout. Cole ducked down out of sight against the stone cut path.

"Any sign of that rider we spotted?" one of the Templars said after a moment.

"Nah. Didn't even get near the keep anyway. Probably just taking a shortcut to the Marshes. I know I wouldn't use the river road – too many bandits."

Cole peeked up from his hiding spot – the keep's east wall was level with the mount, a distance of a little less than ten feet from the summit. There were guards at each corner of the keep, but they weren't patrolling. He could make that jump, keep from being seen by the soldiers on the wall, but these watchtower guards would be a problem.

He picked up a few loose rocks and waited an achingly long time for both guards to turn their attention from his position, then scurried across the summit and slipped to the west side of the mount, pressing his back against the steep incline. He took a breath and threw a rock across the summit to the path where he had just been, then ducked down again.

"What was that?"

"Probably a rabbit. It's  _always_  rabbits."

"Better check just to make sure…"

As the guards looked east, Cole pushed off the mount, reaching his hands out. He caught the edge of the keep's wall, let his feet land gently against the stone, and scrambled up and over the battlements, pressing himself against the stone. He took a few breaths, then, keeping his head below the side of the battlement, he quickly made his way to the northeast corner of the keep's wall.

He stopped, just out of the corner guard's sight. The guard there had many feelings rolling through his mind – boredom, common in a guard, fear of his superior officer, he'd been late to duty this morning, wanted to see the show after morning exercise, bit of excitement, mages and sinners, sinners a strong word, just so long as the mages get caught no one else needed to get hurt, did they?

Cole could feel the flashes of memory, the judgments, Krem and Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari led off in one direction, Sinead in another. He did not wait to puzzle the memories out, taking a rock and tossing it at the north battlement. The rock hit, and as the guard turned to find the source of the noise, Cole sprinted to the stone staircase in the northeast corner and ran, light and fleet-footed, down the stairs.

* * *

The soldiers brought her, struggling, kicking, screaming, below the keep, through hallways that smelled of mold and wet, to a bare, square stone room. A fire raged within a grated fireplace. A wooden chair attached to the floor faced the fireplace in the center of the room, offset by a small wooden table.

The soldiers carried her to the chair and tried to sit her down. She straightened her legs, fighting against them as they forced her left arm down onto the arm of the chair and strapped it down at wrist and upper forearm with leather straps. They did the same to her dead arm, then forced her legs to bend and strapped them to the legs of the chair. She fell into the chair, unable to keep from sitting any longer.

One of the soldiers unlocked the manacles from her legs and wrist, ignoring her as she rocked against the straps.

"This one's got fight," one of them said, pulling at Sinead's loose hair.

"Don't touch me, you bloody bastard!" Sinead screamed. She spat at him, marring the breastplate of his shining armor.

"Bitch." He wiped the spit away with disgust.

"Leave her alone, Arnold," the other soldier said. "She doesn't know any better. She'll be done up right soon."

"Whatever," Arnold grumbled.

They left her then, alone in the stone room, unable to see the door.

The panic took her then, swallowing her whole. She could not breathe, could not think, felt as if she was on the verge of death. She tried to slow her breathing, but it was no use – this was it, this was everything she ever feared, everything she ever knew was in her future. Death was better than this – she should have thrown herself from the tower at Skyhold when she had the chance.

The door opened. She turned her head, one way and then the other, saw two Templars in light armor in the corner of her eyes.

"Set up as we practiced," one of the Templars said, walking to face Sinead. He was older, face lined, eyes kind. He kneeled in front of her and gave her a smile. "So here's the vicious blood mage, hm?" He rolled up her right sleeve and turned her arm so that the forearm faced up, then traced the old scars left there by knives in the past. "Ah. The evidence of blood magic  _is_  visible. Goodness, girl, what did you do to your hand?" He carefully flattened her mangled hand, cringing at the crunch of the broken bones. "I imagine that must hurt."

She did not answer, staring at him, afraid, angry, disbelieving that she was in this situation. It felt surreal – she wanted to laugh. To cry.

"Well, we can fix that up after." He patted her cheek. She flinched away. He sighed. "I won't lie – this is going to hurt. But I promise, I'll be as swift as possible. And you won't remember the pain." He gave her a sympathetic look. "I know it seems as if the world is ending, but it is not. You will survive, you will find purpose, you will have a good life. And you'll never hear another demon again. This is for the best."

He nodded over her shoulder, to the Templar she could not see, and he was handed a syringe filled with blue liquid.

"Lyrium," she breathed.

"Just so."

Pushed the needle into the elbow crease of her right arm.

"Oh, no," she said, her voice raising. "No, please don't do this. Please don't do this!"

He pressed the plunger, emptying the syringe into her veins. At first she felt nothing, then a burn that bloomed from her right shoulder and quickly spread to the rest of her body. She gasped as her mana flared full, abundant.

* * *

He crept through the hallway, avoiding voices in the distance, feeling for his friends. He could feel their fear, somewhere below the keep. Three of them together – Krem, Tal-Ashkaari, Dorian. Sinead was elsewhere – and something was terribly wrong. The panic shrouded her, and her mind sang strangely.

He fought fear with focus on his aim – find the way to the keep's lower level. He stole through the empty hallways, carefully peeking through open doors into barracks, scurrying past when he knew no one was looking. He edged around a corner, saw the wide open door to a great hall, and across from this a stairway that led down. He slinked close to the wall, slipped down one flight of stairs, turned to take the next – and ran right into a Templar on his way up.

The Templar gave him a stunned look, too shocked at first by Cole's appearance to sound the alarm.

"I'm sorry," Cole said as he drew his knives. "I wish you'd chosen a different way to honor your father's death."

"Intru –!"

Cole's knives found their marks.

* * *

The second syringe left her mana overflowing, spilling out of her in waves of power. It was too much. She needed to burn it off, get it out of her body, her burning body. Her veins itched as if millions of bugs scurried through them. She laughed madly.

"Tiny demons!" She said. "I don't think my Templars will win the battle!"

"She close?" the unseen Templar said.

"No. Unfortunately this is just the beginning. Another."

The kind-eyed Templar was handed another syringe. Sinead growled as the needle was pushed into her arm, yanking her body back and forth. He pushed the plunger. The burn bloomed again, more powerful than the last two, ripping through her body.

"It hurts!" She screamed. "Please, it hurts so much!"

"I know my dear," the Templar said in hushed tones, stroking her hair, her cheek. "I know."

* * *

The pain was almost too much. He stumbled into the dungeon hall, caught off guard by it – pain, power, please, it hurts –

The dungeon guards, two of them, stood up from a game of cards, surprised. He rallied and rushed one of them before he could draw his sword, and as the guard stepped forward, prepared for a blow, Cole slid around him and took him in the back, and again in the side. He fell forward and Cole jumped up on the table as the second guard drew his sword. There was a wave of power – lyrium-based power, singing solid songs. Cole ignored it, unaffected. He jumped at the guard, avoiding the swing of his sword, and buried a knife in the base of the guard's neck. He kicked off the guard's torso and landed, crouching, on his feet.

"Cole? Is that you? Thank the bloody Maker, he's finally done something useful today."

Cole turned around and saw Dorian pressing his face up against the bars of a cell at the end of the hall.

Krem clanged against the bars of the cell across from Dorian's. "Cole! You have to –"

"Don't worry, I'll unlock the doors," Cole said hurriedly, sheathing his knives and running to the cells.

"No, forget these doors! Just throw us the keys!" Krem snapped. "You need to find Sinead!"

"We'll find her together," he said, kneeling next to Dorian's door and taking out two of his tools.

Dorian took him by the shoulder and shook him, sending waves of emotion at him, fear, worry, panic, nightmare – a horrible nightmare –

"Fuck my door. You don't have time! They're going to make her Tranquil!"

Cole jumped up, dropping the tools. Fear filled him, deep, terrible fear. Deeper than the depth. He ran to the body of one of the guards, cut off his belt with a swift slice, took the ring of keys it held and tossed them at Krem, then ran from the dungeon hall, following the strange singing and the panic and the pain that came from Sinead.

He was slammed by an awful sense of agony. He groaned and slowed, holding his chest. He took a few deep breaths and ran on.

* * *

The fourth syringe held a pain so strong she'd only known its like once before, when the Pride demon destroyed her arm. Her head lolled, and she gagged.

"Bucket," said the kind-eyed Templar.

She emptied the contents of her stomach into the bucket.

"There we are. That's better." The Templar wiped her mouth with a clean cloth, and held up a cup of water to her lips.

She took a few sips, let the wet run down her throat. She shook with the pain. Shadows edged against her vision. She let out a sob, and then another, and then began to weep as she hadn't since she was a small child, racking, heavy sobbing that hurt her chest.

"Oh, my love, my sweet, it's almost over," the Templar soothed, daubing at her eyes with another cloth. "You're doing so well, and it's almost over."

She looked into those kind eyes – how could such kind eyes be owned by someone capable of doing such terrible things? She took a shuddering breath.

"How?" she whispered. "How can you do this?"

The Templar's face softened into sadness. "If you've seen the things I have, you wouldn't have to ask."

She shook her head slightly. "It isn't right. Isn't right."

"For who? For you, or the ones whom you could hurt without meaning to? There are many different kinds of right." He nodded to the unseen Templar. "I think one more will do it."

She opened and closed her eyes slowly as he pressed the needle of the fifth syringe into her arm.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "So sorry for you." She looked him in the eyes. "I forgive. Forgive you." She held her head up and stared at the fire.

* * *

The door – she was behind the door. All that pain, all that fear. He killed the guard at the door quickly, took him in the throat before he knew there was someone there. Now he just needed to open the door.

But he had dropped two of his tools in his haste, in his fear – and one of them was the size needed for this kind of lock, and now he had to work with a tool that was a little too small, kept slipping out of place on the tumblers. And he just needed to open the door.

The singing was so loud. So terribly loud.

* * *

There was no pain from the fifth syringe. Or, there was, but it was too far away to feel. She felt as if she was not a physical being, that she was two selves at once, in one place.

The world was on fire with color. Bright, blooming hues flickered on the stones, in the Templar's armor, formed shapes in the air. Something silver shimmered at every point in space, like a layer upon a layer, loosely loping in waves. Within the shimmer was a without, another place, another plane, and the beings that existed there could see her.

It was the Fade she could see, and the spirits who watched with curiosity. She felt that if she had free use of her hand, she could press against the shimmer and slip through to the other side.

"It's everywhere," she said in awe. "Oh, Maker. It's so beautiful."

"Ser?"

"Yes. Do it."

There was something sharp, something that felt  _wrong_ , sickly wrong, felt –

And then there was no feeling.

No color.

No pain.


	19. Hollow

It was as if a candle had been puffed out in his mind – there was light, and heat, and then, nothing. All the pain and fear was replaced by a void. He had felt such a sensation before – in the living who had suddenly become the dead.

Breathing hard through his teeth, he jiggled his tools, turned a pick, and the lock was open. Quickly he withdrew the tools and opened the door a crack, drawing one of his blades.

Two Templars in leather armor stood by a fireplace, the older one holding a brand in the flames that sang a sweet song. Sinead sat strapped in a chair, her back to him, her head hanging forward.

"Might be a blessing to brand her face instead of her forehead," the older Templar said. He was filled with sympathy, sad, empty sympathy. "She's a pretty one – there's always someone who'll take advantage of the pretty ones."

A deep anger filled Cole, ripped at his chest. He pushed the door open and threw his knife into the back of the younger Templar. The young man fell to his knees with a yelp, grabbing at the blade. The older Templar looked up in surprise as Cole ran at the young man and pulled out the knife. The older Templar snapped into action, swinging the brand at Cole. Cole took the young Templar by the back collar and blocked the blow with his head. The young Templar went down.

"No," the older man said, aghast.

His face grew hard, and he lunged at Cole with the brand. Cole jumped back, then jumped back again as again the Templar lunged. He hit the wall, rolled to the right, the brand sparking against stone, just missing him. He pushed off the wall and slid behind the older Templar, drawing his second blade. The Templar was fast, swinging around before Cole could move forward. They circled around each other, each of them looking for an opening.

"I assume you're a friend of the girl's." The man's voice was hard, stern. "Do you realize that interrupting the Rite is blasphemy? You are threatening her soul."

"You… _believe_  that." Cole was surprised. "You want to help her."

"Of course I want to help her. She's cursed."

The anger became white hot. "She is  _not_."

He flipped his knife in his left hand so that the blade was pointing back, then ran and slid at the Templar, right knife aimed at the Templar's gut. The Templar moved to Cole's right, swinging the brand down and connecting with Cole's right arm, knocking the knife from his grip. He felt a crack, but ignored it, swinging quickly behind the Templar and slicing right above the older man's right knee crease. The man cried out and dropped to his right knee, slamming the brand vertically against the floor.

Cole stood and kicked the brand out of the Templar's hand. It rattled uselessly across the floor. Blood pulsed from the Templar's leg wound, pooling on the stone. He was going pale, and he lowered to the floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hand.

The Templar looked up at him sadly. "So you will stand there and watch me die? This is the kind of person the poor girl's befriended?"

Cole crouched next to the man. "She is not your daughter," he said. "None of them were. And your daughter wasn't cursed either. You've hurt so many people, believing you were helping, trying to erase your mistake. I can't let you do it again."

The Templar's breathing became labored. "I…I'll be able to see…her again…"

"If she wants to see  _you_ ," Cole said coolly.

The life left the Templar's eyes and his head slumped to the side. Cole quickly picked up his knives and sheathed one of them, wincing at the pain in his right arm. It was beginning to throb. He crouched in front of the chair. Sinead's hair hung limply in front of her face, wet with sweat. He pushed it away, lifted her head. Her eyes were thin slits, her face wet with tears, her mouth slightly open. Her skin was lined with blue streaks.

"Sinead?" He shook her a little, fear building again within him. "Be alive. Please, be alive."

She took a shuddering breath and moved her head against his hand, then stilled. A small laugh of relief left him. He cut her loose from the chair and pulled her to the floor, laying her flat, then took a cup of water from the small table by the chair and dumped it over her face. She coughed and opened her eyes, blinking. Then she focused on him.

The breath left his lungs. Her eyes were empty – no light, no life behind them. Her face relaxed into a blank expression.

"Cole." Her voice was flat. "I must apologize to you. I…don't remember…why…" She lost consciousness again, eyes rolling back in her head.

There was a roaring noise in his ears, and then nothing. He was hollow. There was nothing for him to feel, for he was hollow. Empty. He set the cup carefully on the floor, then picked her up, cradled her against him. She was so small.

His arm ached as he carried her from the room and down the hallway to the dungeon, but it did not bother him. At one point he heard two Templars coming his way. He gently sat Sinead up against the wall, turned the corner and killed them – how he did so did not matter, they had to die, had to end – then he returned to Sinead, picked her up and continued on, stepping over the bodies without seeing them.

The others were still in the dungeon. It had not been long since he left – enough time for them to unlock themselves and their manacles, for Krem to pick up a sword.

"You're back," Krem said, relieved. "You found her. She's safe?"

"Yes." He lowered Sinead to the ground and held out his right arm to Dorian mechanically. "I think it's broken."

Dorian took a look. "It is. She'd be better at making sure not to cock it up, though." He nodded to Sinead.

"She can't."

"We'll get her awake first, then, and –"

"She can't," he said again in the same dead voice.

Dorian stared at him, realization dawning on his face. He nodded slowly, sadness etched around his eyes. "I am so sorry," he said, gripping Cole's hand. "So very sorry."

"Fuck." Krem pulled his hand through his hair. "Fucking Templar zealots."

"She is Tranquil?" Tal-Ashkaari kneeled next to Sinead. "I have never met a Tranquil mage before. She looks no different from before."

"I recommend not treating her like something to study," Dorian snapped as he healed Cole's arm. "And trust me, she'll be different. She'll be bloody different."

"Thank you." Cole twisted his arm to test it, then moved to the door.

Krem blocked his way. "Where are you going?"

"Upstairs." He looked up at Krem with dull eyes. "I'm going to kill them all. So they'll never hurt anyone again."

"Uh huh." Krem took him by the shoulder and pressed his face close. "I know you want your pound of flesh, but I'm not going to let you go off and get yourself heroically killed. There's at least sixty of the bastards in the keep. You're the only one with armor and decent weapons. Sinead's a liability like this, and even if she was awake she wouldn't be able to fight. We'll never survive an attack – we have to run."

"I agree." Dorian paced the floor. "We could find a back way –"

Krem cut him off. "No. We won't get far without horses. We need to get to the stables. Need to get the gates opened."

"And how do you propose we manage that, pack leader?"

"We'll go with Sinead's suggestion." Krem's eyes flashed with grim resolve. "We light this fucking place on fire."

* * *

They separated, Krem, carrying Sinead, and Tal-Ashkaari, carrying a lit torch, heading toward the stables, Dorian and Cole heading toward the gatehouse. Both groups were to light everything in their path that was burnable aflame.

Dorian and Cole made quick work of the lower levels, Cole with a torch, Dorian with his own flames, burning straw bedding, bodies, the chair that had held Sinead. Then Cole led Dorian upstairs. They crossed into the great hall, and with a burst of heat Dorian lit the many long tables and the hanging sigils on fire. They ran out, ran down the hall toward the front of the keep, entering empty rooms and burning paper, desks, books, carpet, paintings.

As they again ran down the hall, a bell began to clang. Cole stopped and pulled Dorian into a room before half a dozen Templars turned a corner and ran past where they had just been. They were in a long room, a sort of barracks lined with bunks. And in the room, seven men and women were making beds, scrubbing floors, folding clean clothes and setting them in small wardrobes.

"I didn't hear them," Cole said, staring at the people.

"Probably because they're Tranquil. See the brands?" Dorian clapped his hands. "Hello, everyone. You may not have noticed, but the keep's on fire. I'd step-to and make a run for it if I were you."

"We have discussed the fire," one of the men said, picking up a mattress and folding a sheet beneath it. "There are a number of outcomes available to us. If we are to run, and the keep burns, we will be sent to a new location and the possibility of our friends and family finding us will be low. If we do not run and the fire is quenched, our duties will have been met. If we do not run and the keep burns, we will die of smoke inhalation. We have decided the two latter choices are the most preferable."

"Oh, damn. It's that bad with Andraste's Flames, hm? Are there any other Tranquil here?"

"We are the only ones left," a woman scrubbing the floor said. "Kept to maintain the keep. Many others have been sent away. We do not know where."

"Dorian…"

"Yes, I know. We have to help." Dorian sighed. "My friends and I are breaking out of here. You're welcome to come if you wish."

The Tranquil stopped as one and looked at Cole and Dorian.

"What is the likelihood of success you have for escape?" a man asked.

"Not bloody high if you keep asking questions. Follow me if you want to try." Dorian took Cole by the arm. "Can you take the gatehouse alone?"

"Yes."

Dorian shook him. "Don't you dare do anything stupid, like get yourself killed. Okay, everyone, this way."

Dorian ran from the room. The Tranquil followed, jogging with deliberate steps. Cole waited a moment, then threw the torch on one of the beds and ran from the room to the west staircase. He had to duck into rooms more than once to avoid Templars carrying great troughs of water. He ran up the stairs and onto the battlements.

The keep was in chaos – smoke poured from windows, siphoned through the slated roof. Templars were forming bucket lines from the well in the corner of the ward into the keep. The Knight Captain ran up and down the line, barking orders.

Cole spotted Krem near the front of the ward, back against the north wall, running from one wooden structure to another, followed by Tal-Ashkaari. They were nearly at the stables.

Cole ran down the battlements toward the gatehouse. He tried the door, and it opened. Four men were staring out the windows at the burning keep and did not see him come in. There were many feelings coming from them, but he shut them out – he did not want to feel.

"I need the gate." He said.

The Templars looked up. "Who the hell are you?" one of them said.

"Cole. And I need the gate."

He ran to the gears and pulled a lever.

"Hey, get away from there!" One of the men ran to him, grabbed for his arm. He dodged, drew a knife and stabbed the man in the side between the buckles of his breastplate. The man groaned and backed away, holding himself, and fell against the wall.

The men drew their weapons. Cole did the same, dodging and weaving away from their swords, difficult to use in such a tight place, taking each of them down – throat, side, upper thigh. When they all lay on the ground, dead or dying, he sheathed his knives again and pushed at the gears. They were heavy, difficult to push alone. Slowly, with grinding clicks, he made the portcullis rise until his arms no longer had the strength to move the gears.

He ran to the windows overlooking the keep. Horses were loose and milling in front of the stables without their kit. Krem had hooked horses up to the cart they had arrived in – the stable hands were most likely dead for him to get access to it. He had the cart pulled next to the stables, and had a cloak covering his head. He spotted Cole in the window and gave him a sign, then cracked the reins and pushed the horses into a run.

The Knight Captain spied the cart racing away from the stables. He screamed at a number of Templars, pointing at it, then pointing to the gatehouse. Cole ran to the west windows, climbing up into one of their frames, and waited. As the cart passed through the gate, he jumped, landing hard on the top of the cart's roof. He rolled forward a bit, crawled to the front of the cart, and slipped down next to Krem in the driver's seat. Krem jumped.

"Andraste's tits, you scared the shit out of me," Krem said.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. Anyone in pursuit?"

"Not yet. Soon."

"Then we'd better get some distance. I doubt they'll follow us all the way back to the bridge – not if they're trying to keep their operation secret." Krem called out to the horses, and they picked up speed, the cart rattling over the road. He looked at Cole and grinned. "I'd call this a successful escape."

Cole did not return the look, staring at the blurred legs of the galloping horses. "I wouldn't."

Krem's face fell. "Yeah." He looked forward. "Yeah."

* * *

They pulled into the township by the bridge a couple hours later, the sun nearing its zenith. Krem drove the cart all the way to the inn, pulling it around to the kitchen door.

"If we can't go to the guards here in town, then I need to go to the rookery and write some letters," Krem said grimly. "We can't let this shit lie. Damn it. So much for keeping our position secret." He reined in the horses. "We'll stick around here until help comes. Can't leave the innkeeper's girl high and dry."

"She's very afraid," Cole said dully.

He slipped from the driver's seat and walked around the cart, opening up its doors. Dorian came to the edge, blinking in the sunlight.

"That's the last time I ever travel by cart." He helped the Tranquil off the cart one by one, then jumped off the edge. "I'm going to help these people reach their contacts. Goodness knows there must be people looking for them, poor creatures. And I think they've impressed upon me or something – followed me like a group of ducklings." He clapped his hands. "All right, everyone, let's find some paper and quills!"

Cole climbed into the cart and walked to the back. Tal-Ashkaari was there, holding Sinead's head in her lap.

"She has not yet woken," the Qunari said. "Her skin is clearing." She looked up at Cole, concerned. "Is she truly different now? I do not understand how she has changed."

Cole ignored her question and picked Sinead up. "She needs rest," he said mechanically.

He walked off the side of the cart and walked into the kitchen. A cook and her crew looked up as he entered, and he ignored their surprised questions, weaving around them and going into the tavern. The tavern was bustling, busy, as if nothing had happened the night before. He stopped in front of the kitchen door, looking at the laughing, happy crowd of inn guests, travelers and township residents partaking in their midday meal. It felt wrong somehow that everything in the world would continue on – though did it not always? Had he not said such things to people he tried to help?

The innkeeper's daughter spied him across the room. She quickly dropped the mugs of ale she held at their proper table and ran to him.

"You came back." She was nervous, but her fragile trust gained a layer of thickness. "You found your friends?"

"Yes." He looked down at Sinead. "She needs a place to sleep."

The girl nodded and waved for him to follow her up the stairs.

"The guards came earlier," she said, voice low, hesitant. "I told them papa had…had gone somewhere. He's done it before. Sometimes I have to run the inn for days and – it's hard. The people didn't cheat papa. They try with me."

"They see someone who's afraid," Cole said.

"I know." She pulled out a key ring and unlocked a door. "What will we do with…with the bodies?"

Cole pushed through the door into the room – a small room with two beds. He laid Sinead atop the bedspread, unbuckling her arm and smoothing out her hair. Then he turned to the girl.

"What is your name?"

"Annette."

"I'll help you, Annette."

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Cole sliced up the ruined rug in the office and wrapped the dead, decaying men within. Then, when Dorian returned from helping the Tranquil at the rookery and set them up with rooms, they burned the bodies, Dorian controlling the burn within three barriers. They collected the crew's stolen items and parceled them out to their rightful owners.

Krem wrote letters to the Nevarran guardsmen, the Circle, and the Inquisition. He came back from the rookery looking tired. It was near suppertime by the time he returned, and the joined the others gathered at a small table near the bar.

"I'm sick of Nevarra," he said. "Not one thing's gone right in this damned country. I don't care if we have to cross the entirety of the Silent Plains, so long as I don't have to spend another minute here."

"At least we've blown open Andraste's Flames," Dorian said. "There's no way they can continue to call themselves a quiet sect of Templars with the proof we've sent off 'round the continent."

"Yeah, sure. But we took casualties in the process."

"We are all alive and healthy," Tal-Ashkaari countered. "We have done well for the situation we were in."

The others did not reply, Krem and Dorian reaching for their drinks, Cole staring at his hands.

She was less optimistic about the outcome of their escape when Sinead woke up. It was after supper was served when Sinead walked up to the table and sat down next to Cole. Her hair was still loose, but brushed, and she had changed her clothes. The blue streaks on her skin were now thin and light. Her face was expressionless. Cole glanced at her and quickly looked away, not wanting to see her empty eyes again.

"I must eat," she said with a flat, toneless voice. "I have waited as long as I can to not eat without adverse effects."

Cole passed is barely touched plate of mashed vegetables, beans and bread to her. He had tried to eat a few times that day, but the hollow in his chest made it difficult to swallow more than a few bites.

"Thank you." Sinead picked up the fork, scooped the food into her mouth and chewed in smooth, controlled motions.

"Why did you wait so long to come down?" Krem pushed a cup of small ale toward her. "We were worried about you. Could have told us you were okay sooner."

"I did not consider worry." Sinead talked between bites and swallows. "I woke with no pain and thought only of self care and supplies. I cannot heal with magic, but I am still capable of administering poultices and potions. I have counted through my herbal packets and made note of what I must purchase tomorrow at the apothecary."

She went quiet and finished the plate efficiently, then gulped down the small ale.

"I shall return to my inventory. I am attempting to recall recipes that I have not had to use for some time."

"You do not wish to join our company?" Tal-Ashkaari was shaken by Sinead's tone, odd movements, and brief speech.

"I must continue my work." Sinead rose from the table and walked away without another word.

Tal-Ashkaari was distressed, dismayed, looked at the others with a disquieted expression. Krem and Dorian were equally dismayed, though without Tal-Ashkaari's disbelief. Cole shut out their emotions, staring at the table. He still did not want to feel.

"So it did take," Dorian said quietly.

"This is Tranquility? This blankness?" Tal-Ashkaari frowned deeply. "We have something similar in Par Vollen. Qamek – used for those who are most rebellious, most unable to accept the truth of the Qun. But those on qamek do not think, they merely do. Their bodies are made into machines, their minds stilled from thought. This is…not the same. Her mind is still here, yet she is not."

"Tranquility blocks one from the Fade," Dorian explained. He paused for a moment, turning his mug in his hand. "I think of it less like a blankness, and more as if one has been cut off from one's soul. Sinead will think, she will speak, she will act of her own will, but everything that is essential to her being is missing."

Tal-Ashkaari's eyes widened. "And this is considered more kind than chaining the mage and sewing his mouth closed? It is barbarous."

"Glass houses, my dear," Dorian said sharply. "And I wouldn't compare one against the other favorably. In my opinion, both actions are barbarous results of fear winning over knowledge."

"I never said I supported how the Saarabas are treated," Tal-Ashkaari said heatedly. "I am Qunari, not an automaton. And how can you not be furious? She is not herself. I am enraged."

"You are? Are you sure you don't want to poke at her to see how she still works?"

"I may be lacking in tact, but I am not hard-hearted, Tevinter."

As they bickered, Cole sank his head into a hand. He felt so tired – everything was making him tired.

"All right, leave it," Krem snapped. "The last thing we need is to be at each other's throats. What's done is done. What matters is what we do now."

Cole stood quickly. "I'm going to bed."

Krem's face fell. "Aw, come on, Cole, don't leave yet. You've barely said a word all day."

"I just…need to sleep." He walked off and climbed the stairs to the room Annette had given him, kicked off his boots and fell into bed. He sank into sleep – the hollowness allowed sleep. He slipped into the Fade, in a copy of his room in the inn in which the walls faded into a starry sky. He lay looking at the stars, not thinking, not feeling, not hearing, waiting for the morning.

* * *

The next day, Cole helped Annette with work around the inn. It was better to be busy with scrubbing and sweeping and laundering sheets and feeding the visitors' horses, better to chase away thoughts with mindless labor. He avoided the others, not wanting to hear kind words from Dorian or Krem or questions from Tal-Ashkaari, or quiet emptiness from Sinead.

Annette was a timid leader of the inn staff, most of whom listened to her more out of fear of the wrath of the presumed still alive innkeeper. In the back of his mind, behind the hollowness, Cole knew he had to help, but he was not sure how.

The Nevarran guard arrived at the inn in the late afternoon with a clatter, one Ser Milo Pentaghast commanding the unit. Cole watched from the stables as Krem greeted them.

"You made good time from Nevarra," Krem said, impressed.

"Actually, we were doing patrols on the Imperial Highway when we got notice that the Flames were sighted in this area," Ser Milo said. "The Mortalitasi are very interested in getting this heretical sect nipped in the bud. Mages from all over Thedas are becoming nervous about stepping foot in Nevarra. If they haven't abandoned this keep you mentioned in your notice, we may get lucky and finally land a lead to the central operation."

With a swift efficiency Ser Milo had the crew gathered and questioned them each in turn in the office where the innkeeper was killed. Cole's interrogation was one of the last, as Ser Milo considered the testimony of those actually kidnapped by Andraste's Flames most important. He shuffled through some earlier notes, motioning for Cole to sit and passed him a cup of water.

"Now, I've been told you have a special gift," Ser Milo said, scratching at his forehead and sweeping some of his greased black hair out of his eyes. "That's how you came to know where your friends had been taken?"

"Yes."

"And from whose head did you pull the information?"

"I didn't. He told me."

"Who told you?"

"The innkeeper."

Ser Milo made a note.

"And where is the innkeeper now?"

"Dead."

Ser Milo nodded, checking something off from his notes.

"He attacked you?"

"No. His friends did."

Ser Milo looked up. "The innkeeper cooperated with you?"

"Yes. When I killed his friends."

"Why did you kill him, then?"

"He hurt people. He wouldn't stop."

Ser Milo folded his hands together. "I know our society, as a whole, is a violent one. But to kill in cold blood is still considered murder. You know that, yes? We like to have some semblance of a court system in Nevarra."

Cole blinked. "I know sometimes it's complicated. That people who hurt can't always be killed, or else it hurts more than it helps. But he wasn't complicated."

"If he was still alive, we could have questioned him. He may have known far more than you gleaned from him. Not to mention he could have faced justice in front of those he wronged."

"You'd only be able to question him if I saved my friends," Cole said with a shrug. "What if I had died? Or was captured? He would have been free to hurt again. Now he isn't."

Ser Milo cocked a brow. "That's…one way to look at it." He sighed and rubbed his temple. "I can't deny that you were the main catalyst for the break in our investigation. And I understand that your lady friend was made Tranquil by these Flames."

Cole fell into his hollowness. He stared at Ser Milo's hands.

"In light of these things, I'm going to make a summary judgment as Commander of the Nevarran guard – the innkeeper became a casualty as a result of your attempt at discovering the fate of your friends and his ordered attack."

"That's not really true."

"No, it isn't. But it's in the paperwork now, which is as good as truth. You're dismissed."

Cole stood. Then he had a thought.

"Can you help Annette?"

"Who?"

"The innkeeper's daughter. She's not strong enough to run an inn alone. She needs help – she's the only one left for her brother and sister."

Ser Milo shook his head. "That's not part of the guard's jurisdiction. We're –"

"She's a small person in a small place. You help so that the small people in small places will be safe. But she won't be safe if you don't do something for her. Please."

The Commander drummed his fingers on the table. "I'll…see what I can do. Dismissed."

Cole left the room, a flicker lighting within the hollowness. He almost wanted to feel the flicker, then thought better of it – there was something lurking behind the hollowness that he was not ready to face.

* * *

That night, Cole reluctantly joined the others for dinner after Krem insisted by dragging him from his hiding place in a corner in the kitchen to a table in the tavern.

"All right, everyone's assembled," he said, pushing Cole into a seat. "So. Are we still going after Eluard or what?"

Dorian shrugged. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"We've run into some sticky situations, and I'm just making sure we're all on board to continue with the mission."

"There is no reason to not continue to Eluard's location." Sinead cocked her head at Krem, giving him a blank look. Cole carefully kept himself from looking directly at her. "Titus is likely still pursuing me. He wants me for my bloodline, not for my magical ability. Tranquility will not dissuade him from using me to his ends."

"Are you sure you want to continue? You're a dead weight like this. It might be safer to secret you somewhere safe and continue on without you. We can give Eluard an explanation, try to figure him out."

Cole gave Krem a look of astonishment. "You'd leave her behind? Alone, no friends, no family, no protection?"

"It's not like that. I –"

"No." His voice was firm.

"It is not an unreasonable idea, Cole." Sinead directed her monotone at him. He hovered his eyes on the table in front of her. "I am unable to protect myself. If I am in a location unknown to Titus or to the four of you, I will be safe for a time. This was how I was protected for most of my life."

"Eluard asked for you, not us." His voice rose a little. "He won't trust us without you. You are the reason for the whole journey."

"A valid point."

"Well, if you want to find Eluard, I'm not going to argue," Krem said.

"I will do as you wish," Sinead said. "I am not partial to either decision."

Krem gave Cole a long, hard look that he returned without blinking.

"Right. You're still with us, then," Krem conceded.

"I want to know if Tal-Ashkaari's still tailing along with us." Dorian crossed his arms. "You've gathered more than enough information on Cole, haven't you? Wouldn't you rather see what Nevarra does to Andraste's Flames? Plenty of information about mages to be found there, I'm sure."

Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. "I wish to continue with you, if you will let me. I…feel I must."

"Ah. Can't stop a good anthropological observation now, can you? Not with a mage made Tranquil changing the group dynamic."

Tal-Ashkaari flushed. "Please stop implying that I work without thought," she snapped. "I understand that you are upset at Sinead's condition, but it is not right to take out your anger on me. I am also upset." Her voice started to lose its typical control. "Today I helped her shop for herbs, and she only spoke when it related to the acquisition of those herbs – no insight, no conversation, no wonder, just… _herbs_. She is like a paper doll wearing Sinead's face!"

"Don't say that," Cole said, voice low.

She covered her mouth. "I…I am sorry, Sinead. I did not think when I spoke."

"You have no need to be sorry. I am not offended."

Tal-Ashkaari's face crumpled. "You should have been." She looked at the bar, blinking rapidly.

Dorian's eyes softened. He took Tal-Ashkaari's hand. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You're right – I was taking out my anger on you. You've more than proven yourself in your time with us. Forgive me."

Tal-Ashkaari nodded curtly, still looking at the bar.

"All right, then. So, we're all still on the road together." Krem looked to each member of the crew in turn – the empty, the almost crying, the angry, the hollow. He sighed. "We'll leave at first light. Let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

Cole woke to a sharp rapping on his door. The feelings on the other side of the door were as sharp as the knock – worry, dismay, sadness… He rolled out of bed, scrambled into his shirt and flung open the door. Tal-Ashkaari was there, a frantic look on her face.

"I woke early to help her," she said, words spilling out of her. "She wakes at the same time, prepares as she can, and waits for me to help her with her hair. I am not so skilled as you, she says, but she is grateful, since your sickness, for the help, for –"

Cole pushed passed her and ran to Sinead's room.

"It is not what you think!" Tal-Ashkaari followed him, keeping pace with him. "She is not injured, or ill, it is –"

Cole pushed Sinead's door open and Tal-Ashkaari's words petered off as he took in the scene – Sinead sat rigid on a stool, the blade of her knife wrapped around a lock of hair near the nape of her neck. She was carefully pushing her hair against the blade with her thumb and sawing at the lock. Black wisps of hair floated from her head and landed with their brothers in small piles on the floor.

He stiffened, unable to breathe for a moment. "What are you doing?" he said finally.

Her hand stopped sawing. She turned to him, turned the full force of the nothing that came from her eyes on him. He flinched, but was unable to look away.  _Like a doll wearing her face_.

"It is impractical to continue the journey with my hair at this length," she said in her monotone. "I should not require another to manage its upkeep."

"No one minds helping." Cole's voice rose. "Tal-Ashkaari didn't mind. I don't mind."

"It is not a matter of who is willing to help. It is a matter of what is most convenient for all in the group. I have thought of this." She turned away and continued sawing at her hair.

"Stop!" He stepped over to her and covered her hand in his.

She stilled. "If it is what you wish."

Cole softened his grip and gently took the knife from her hand. Her arm dropped to her lap. He examined the damage – she had already cut a section of her hair away under her ear on the left side. Something moved within the hollowness, making him close his eyes tightly for a moment. He opened them again and threaded his fingers through her hair.

"I'll help you," he said. "So it will be straight."

He took a thick lock in his hand and smoothly cut it away from her head, dropped it, and repeated the action, until her hair was shorn evenly around her head, hitting her at her chin. Without the weight of length, the black waves became thick curls fluffing out from her head. She brushed her hand through her hair.

She stood and turned, looked at him again with her emptiness. "Thank you." She looked at Tal-Ashkaari. "I will no longer need the hairpins. They will have more use with someone who can use them without help. Your hair has the proper length."

"I could never –"

"I'll take them," he said faintly. "To keep them safe."

"If that is what you wish. I will eat breakfast now." She passed him without another word.

"I am sorry," Tal-Ashkaari said desperately. "She had begun before I arrived. I did not know what to do."

Cole did not move. He was staring at the last lock of hair he had cut from Sinead's head and still held in his hand. He heard Tal-Ashkaari leave, heard the door close softly behind him, then after a time open again.

"Cole? You okay?"

Krem touched his shoulder softly. He jumped and looked up at his concerned friend. He held up the lock of hair with his shaking hand.

"It was blackness borne back by good memories," he said quietly. "And now it's nothing."

Something broke. The hollowness fell away and a roaring rapids of pain washed over him. The knife and the hair slipped from his hands. He covered his face and sobbed uncontrollably. The pain crushed his chest in as he cried. Krem hugged him close, saying nothing as he rubbed Cole's back.


	20. Qunari Song

“Your eyes are red.” Annette’s voice was timid. She approached Cole in the stable as he buckled the saddle to his horse, holding a bundle in her arms.

“They are,” he said dully, not looking away from his work.

She fidgeted next to him for a moment. “You and your friends are leaving this morning?”

“Yes.” He rubbed the horse’s nose, then placed the bridle over its head and walked it from the stable.

Annette kept pace with him. “Are you going on a very long journey?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be coming back through Nevarra?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” She hugged the bundle to her chest. “Then I may never see you again.”

He stopped and gave her a confused look. “You want to see me again?”

She flushed to the roots of her blond hair and looked at her feet. “Ser Milo says he’ll help me get a fair price for the inn. Then I’m to go to the capital – he says there are plenty of places to find honest work there, perhaps even an apprenticeship. I know it’s your doing that he’s helping me. You’ve helped me so much, I…I never thought…” She shoved the bundle into his hands and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

 She ran off before he could say a word. He touched his cheek, surprised, and then unwrapped the bundle to reveal a round loaf of dense sweet bread.

Krem walked up behind him and examined the loaf. He whistled. “Must have made an impression. Baked goods are like love letters for rural girls.”

“She doesn’t love me.” Cole rewrapped the bread. “Her heart aches for kindness and confuses compassion for something more. She has been so sad for so long.” He carefully placed the bundle into his saddlebag. “Before, I would have thought taking away the thing that made her sad was enough. I killed the father, she’ll be happier now. But it’s not enough – so many sadnesses are built on top of the first sadness, so many wrongs must be righted. I –” he thought of Sinead’s darkness and stopped. The ache in his chest was raw now, and refused to hide away behind hollowness. His eyes stung, but he did not want to cry again. It felt useless to cry.

“I hope she finds someone who cares for her the way she should be cared for,” he said finally.

Krem patted his shoulder. “You’re a good guy, Cole. People need to tell you that more often.”

He looked down at his feet. “Thank you.”

“Come on, the others have been waiting for us for a while.”

The crew made their way out of the township toward the massive bridge spanning the river. The stone structure was wide enough to allow two carts to pass comfortably. Though the sun was just coming up above the horizon, there was already considerable traffic from merchants heading toward Tevinter. They wove around caravans of overstuffed carts, mules, horses, dracolisks and underlings running to and fro checking that goods did not tumble from their bindings.

The bridge sloped up a number of feet before leveling out and giving Cole a full view of the countryside from its tall vantage point. He stared over the fields and the river cutting through the landscape like a silver scar. The world seemed both incredibly big and incredibly small at the same time from here, a feeling that felt comfortable, familiar. A feeling he would share with others normally, simply saying the sensations that came to mind.

But today as he felt the size of the world and his place in it, he thought of Sinead and the stars. So he held it in, held it close. He was alone in his feelings, still blocking what he could from the others.

Once they had crossed the bridge and traveled about a mile from the township, they were alone on the Imperial Highway, the merchants left behind with their slow trains of goods. As the sun traveled its path through the sky, the land leveled out, and the lush fields gradually were replaced by scrub grass and low, thorny bushes. They stopped from time to time to stretch, to water the horses at the small wells that would appear next to the highway with brightly colored signs above them, and for their midday meal, but Krem wanted to keep them moving with as infrequent stops as possible.

“I want to pass the Silent Plains quickly,” he said. “We’re two days’ ride from the border, but this area’s not much better. Gives me the creeps, all this open space with nowhere to hide.”

The rode on in silence, no one in the mood for conversation. Or, no one quite sure what to talk about. Everything was different. Everything was wrong. Cole continued to keep to himself, but as the silence continued past midday he realized that in the past almost everyone conversed through either he or Sinead, or as a result of Tal-Ashkaari’s questions.

Sinead was as silent as he was, because of the lack of a need to speak – she only ever spoke if spoken to, or to ask about very particular things, like food, or supplies. Otherwise she stared blankly forward, holding the reins of her horse without nervousness or reluctance. He felt he should be pleased with her sudden confidence with the horse, but knowing that the confidence came not from true mastering of her insecurity with the beast but because it was simply a task she had to accomplish only hurt him more.

Tal-Ahkaari, meanwhile, had said barely a word all day. She let her horse follow behind the others, directing it only if it attempted to leave the road, at work on something in her hands that was, surprisingly, not a notebook. It looked like yarn from a distance. He considered opening his mind for a moment to sneak a peek at what it was, if it was something to be concerned about. But he did not want to hear the worries and the concerns and the fears and the hopes of only three people – the void of the fourth was something he could not yet face.

At the end of the day, they made camp, building a fire from the thorny brushes. After a dinner eaten quickly to fight against his lack of appetite, Cole stole a thick branch from the feeding pile and sawed off a cylinder about three inches in diameter and four inches long. Then he started to shave away thin strips from it, not quite sure what he wanted to make, simply needing to do something with his hands. Dorian pulled his lute from its case and twiddled with the strings, but never took up an actual song. Krem worked with the fire, checked on the gear, then, with nothing else to do, started sharpening his sword. Sinead made slow, deliberate marks in a notebook as she counted, once again, her herbal supply.

Tal-Ashkaari sat down next to Cole, startling him. His knife slipped from the wood and grazed his thumb.

“I am sorry,” she said, raising her brows. “I did not think you were capable of being surprised.”

“I’m not listening,” he explained, sucking on his smarting thumb.

“I can speak to you another time…”

“No, I’m not listening to heads. I can listen to mouths.”

“You are injured.” Sinead made to stand. “I will bind it for you.”

“No,” he said sharply, making everyone look at him. “No,” he said again, more measured this time. “It’s okay. It bleeds, but barely.”

“If that is what you wish.” She sat and continued her count.

He stared at his thumb for a moment, from time to time wiping away the blood that welled up and spilled over his nail. “You want to ask a question?” He said quietly.

“No.” Tal-Ashkaari fiddled with something in her hands – a thin, black rope. Her tone was low. Almost secretive. “I wished to tell you something today. We do not speak of ourselves. Those of us who are Tal-Ashkaari, I mean. We are to let others speak, hear their truths. To speak of ourselves too much is thought to color our perception of truth too much. You are the only one since I was a child to mention Itwa. Do you…know his story?”

“Not all. Not now. Not when I’m not listening. What I remember…sadness, loss, an old friend, an old question, a song you did not wish to sing.”

“Those are the feelings, yes.” She closed her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Itwa was a nickname. He was very clumsy, you see. He was never known to be without bruises on his arms and legs or scabs on his knees. The Tamassrans feared for a while that he was not well of body, but after tests they determined that he was simply daydreaming.

“He was so very bright.” Her voice grew excited. “He had the most brilliant ideas, even as a child. Ideas for games in which we would work together to create a grand story. Plays of sorts. He would ask questions that would make the Tamassrans sternly lecture him about propriety. He would sneak books from the sections of the library reserved for older children.

“And best of all, he would ask me to help him in all things. Me, the one who wanted to know too much about all things. He liked this. He called me Parshaara – enough. For that is what most people said to me after spending time with me. ‘Enough! Enough! I have no more answers for you!’” She chuckled. “What a strange little child I was. And he. We were a pair. He was…my very best friend.”

Her smile dropped. “And then, one day, he froze his pillow to his bedroll in his sleep. We were eleven, and for the first time I saw fear in him. He was Saarebas – haunted by demons, plagued with magic. The Tamassrans took him aside, spoke to him in soft tones, and he began to cry. Not a wail – perhaps that would have been better, if he had more anger at his fate. But no, it was a quiet weeping. A sniffle. My favorite Tama picked him up and carried him from the room, him clinging to her while the rest of us, the children, watched, knowing that Itwa, now Saarebas, would never be seen again.”

She twisted the rope in her hands. “The Tamassrans kept watch over me for a time. They knew of our closeness and thought I would be angry. But I was not angry – I was in mourning. And I was also in need of an answer. Why did this kind boy have to be locked away for the power that he had? I knew the Qun by heart, of course. Had been taught the dangers of saarebas, the decadence of the southern mages who were foolishly allowed to roam free. But for the first time, the answers I received for my questions did not seem right.

”I poured over the Qun, looking for anything within that would point toward the saarebas needing such a brutal form of control. But those answers were not within the Qun, only the supplementary texts. The _interpretation_. It was a revelation for me. I thought that if I could let my Tama know this truth, the entirety of what it is to be Qunari would have to shift to recognize the truth. How could it not?

“I ran to her, excited and nervous. ‘Tama,’ I said. ‘You know the parable of the ashkaari and the bees? Where the ashkaari is stung and the beekeepers in their proper garb tell him that it is of their nature and one must protect themselves lest they get the sting?’

“‘Of course,’ she said, pushing my hair from my eyes. It never wanted to stay clear of my face in those days – my horns made it difficult to keep neat.

“’We study the parable and say that this is why saarebas must be chained – to protect the people from power that is of their nature. But Tama,’ – and here, I was so proud, so pleased with myself – ‘Tama, the beekeepers were the ones in the garb. They were the ones with protection. No one chains down the _bees_.’”

Tal-Ashkaari shook her head. “My Tamassran did not have the epiphany I was expecting. Instead she merely finished fixing my hair and said, ‘Yes, the Qun has many answers to the same questions.’ Then she sent me outside to play with the others. I was disappointed. Later, I realized that our conversation is what started me down the path to becoming Tal-Ashkaari. Perhaps, in her own way, she was acknowledging this discrepancy in interpretation. Perhaps she expects me to alter our course by single degrees. At least, that is what I hope. She had such a fondness for Itwa.

“It was many years before I saw him again,” she continued. “Nearly nine years. It is a wonder that I did see him again – saarebas are trained as weapons, made into a type of soldier. I was of the priest class, now in training as Tal-Ashkaari. The chances of crossing paths after such a separation is low.

“One day, a group of soldiers camped outside the small city that I was being trained in on their way to Seheron. There was a unit of saarebas with them. It was deemed necessary to provide amusement for these men who were destined for that fraught battleground. My skill at singing was known, and I was told to join those who would provide rallying entertainment.

“The soldiers and the saarebas were gathered in the amphitheater. As I waited for my turn on the dais, lined up along the stone wall, I heard a whisper from the crowd – ‘Parshaara.’ I was stunned. I had not heard this nickname in years. I looked out over the crowd of chained, masked saarebas, all seemingly carved from the same wood. One young man was staring at me. Though they wore the same uniform, I knew him immediately. He was shorter, thinner than the rest, grey hair grown long and braided, horns sawed off. He held up a single finger to greet me, then faced the dais.

“When it was my turn to sing, I knew he was in the crowd, listening to me. That I was made to sing for the friend I had lost. It angered me, for I could not turn away from my duty without a good excuse, and an old friend made Saarebas was certainly not a good excuse. In fact, I would be seen as particularly selfish – to deny an old friend the sound of my voice? A friend who was now a pitiful thing? Monstrous. But I could not leave it at that, to have him acknowledge me, to sing for his kith, and then never to see him again.

“That night, I snuck into the soldiers’ camp – an act that is forbidden. And even more forbidden, I managed to sneak into the tent where the saarebas were bedded down. I look back on that night with pride, but quite a lot of fear. If I had been found…

“But I was not. I found the bedroll where Itwa slept, propped up in his collar. I removed his mask, which woke him.

“Oh, he was angry. ‘If the Arvaarad sees you here, we will both be given qamek, for they will think I have used the demons to possess you into freeing me.’

“’I wished only to see your face once more, Itwa,’ I said.

“I am no longer Itwa. I am Saarebas,’ he replied.

“’And I am no longer Parshaara. I am Tal-Ashkaari,’ I said firmly. ‘And I promise you, my friend, I will find the truth of what it is to be saarabas. I will seek out all ways, and someday we who follow the Qun will no longer fear what we do not know.’

“’You speak of things you do not understand,’ he said. ‘It is my duty –‘

“’It is your duty for the leaders have interpreted it as your duty,’ I cut him off. ‘But interpretations can be changed.’

“He thought for a moment. He still had the same expression as he did as a child when he thought through a problem, a situation, a puzzle – a crinkle of the nose, eyes cast to the side. Then he smiled at me. ‘I am Itwa no longer, but you are still Parshaara. May you never heed your true title.’

I nodded, then took a knife from my belt and cut one of the braids from his head. ‘So that I never forget your demand,’ I said. Then I replaced his mask and snuck away from the camp. My heart was pounding. I had a new purpose, and Itwa was my cause.”

She pulled a thin, braided gray rope looped around her neck from underneath her shirt.

“I still carry the braid with me,” she said. “And I keep it close to my skin. So that I never forget my lost friend, or the truth that I seek.”

Without another word, she presented the thin, black rope to Cole. He stared at it a moment, then took it from her, running his fingers down its length. On either end, thin loops of silverite wire had been twisted around it to keep the rope from fraying. One end had been twisted into a hook, the other a loop.

“This is…Sinead’s hair,” he said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It is difficult to grieve when the one you are grieving for still lives. There is not yet an end to the story, and it feels like the grief will never end. But the story will end one way or another. Wear it. Decide how you will end the story of Sinead’s Tranquility for yourself.”

He glanced at the others, who had not heard the story – at Sinead in her sensibly shorn hair, making notes in silence with a smooth, emotionless face. Only a glance, a painful glance.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He hooked the rope necklace around his neck and hid it under his shirt. He thought for a moment. “You didn’t want to sing to the crowd. I remember feeling that. But it wasn’t because you were hurting – it was because you thought it wasn’t enough.”

Tal-Askaari smiled. “Yes.”

“What was the song?”

She looked down at her lap, pondering her hands. Then she looked up, and began to sing in a low, clear, strong, alto.

“I feel the sun on my skin, and it is good.

I feel the wind on my cheeks, and it is good.

Oh all is well in fen and field when the sun and the wind are friends.

I feel the heat of the day, and it is good.

I feel the tools in my hand, and it is good.

Oh, all is well in village and town when the tools in my hand can be used.

There is no worry when one has their purpose.

There is no strife when the purpose is sound.

When darkness comes think not of the clouds,

Think of the lifegiving rain.

I see my friends by my side, and it is good.

I proudly show them my skill, and it is good.

They and I are the givers of peace,

We are the lifegiving rain.”

Krem and Dorian stopped what they were doing to listen. When the last notes were echoing over the empty horizon, Dorian laid down his lute and sat up straight.

“You’re very good,” he said, impressed. “When you once said that you had to sing as a public service, I admit I thought it was more along the lines of a community choir’s output.”

“I am not sure I understand that reference,” she replied, bemused.

“The Qunari don’t have local egoists without any skill who preen on the stage? The Qun is looking better and better every day. Aside from the whole thing where I’d be chained up for the rest of my life, or turned into a mindless coal miner.”

Krem chuckled. “One of my old army friends was exactly like that. Would take his lute out every time we’d get together for drinks and murder a song. Couldn’t carry a tune if it was nailed to his hands.”

Tal-Ashkaari perked up. “We discourage those without talent to pursue the casual arts, but there are still those who try. Badly. More than one young Qunari has to be disciplined by the Tamassrans for irritating the group.”

“Hm. Tyrannical, yet understandable,” Dorian said with a nod. “Will you teach me that little ditty? The lyrics are…ideological, but the tune is a nice one…”

Cole watched as Krem, Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari continued carrying on their conversation. A conversation that needed no help from him or Sinead, and did not involve Tal-Ashkaari’s interview type questioning. One day of travel, and they were adapting to the different. He looked at Sinead, who was completely uninterested in the conversation’s topic. She was now mixing potions, grinding herbs together with a bit of water.

He ran a finger over the rope of hair around his neck, then turned back to his carving. Adapting to the different was good for the others – a chance to become better. But he would not adapt.

Not yet.


	21. Impression

The Silent Plains were desolate, a great stretch of brown, grassy fields so flat that it was difficult to determine distance. A merchant caravan would appear as a pinpoint in the distance for hours before slowly the features of carts and horses and people silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Birds were thin lines in the sky before shooting down and grabbing up small, unseen things rustling through the grasses. There were no inns along the Highway, only the wells with the brightly colored signs.

They were alone on the road, save for the caravans they passed. Tal-Ashkaari found this unnerving.

"It is a central passage into the innards of Tevinter. Why is the road so empty?"

"The Silent Plains are a weird place. People travel in the caravans for protection," Krem explained. "No big animals, and things don't really grow here besides the grasses and the scrub bushes. People claim that darkspawn are out there, if you go far enough. There are some forts scattered around the plains for army patrols – I was stationed at one for a few months. Never saw any darkspawn, but the whole place still gives me the chills."

"It's the whispers on the wind. Songs screaming stories of the dead. And corruption creeping from the caverns below."

Everyone turned and looked at Cole, aside from Sinead. He still traveled at the back of the party, still kept his mind closed to the others, and he had said few words in the last few days of travel.

"I thought you were not listening," Tal-Ashkaari said.

Cole looked out at the plains, at the slivers of energy that flashed and flickered at the edge of sight. "It's hard not to hear when they're being so loud."

"Wonderful. Now  _I_  have the chills," Dorian grumped.

They were three days from the bridge, about halfway through the Plains, when Cole woke up one morning to the sound of a terse argument. Or, Dorian tersely arguing while Sinead responded in her level monotone. Sinead was holding her cuff bracelet out to Dorian as he angrily packed his things for the day.

"I have no use for the bracelet, and it should not be sold without Dagna's approval. It is a useful item for a mage to have."

"No. I've said it twice now. Please stop asking." Dorian's irritation was strong enough that Cole nearly felt it through his mental block.

"This is not a logical response. We were made targets at the inn due to the visibility of your staff." She hovered over him, arm straight, bracelet glinting in the sun. "There may be another time when hiding your magical abilities will be beneficial."

Dorian stopped packing and stood, crossing his arms. "If you weren't how you are, I'd almost call that an accusation."

"I do not accuse. I am making an observation of the benefits of subterfuge. I have thought of this."

"You think I haven't?" he snapped. "You  _had_  to step in, didn't you? Throw yourself on the pyre when I was the one who got us captured in the first place? I already have to watch you blankly walk around every day, like a reflection of what I could have been. And now you want me to carry a piece of you around like a damned ghoul?"

"This reaction was not my intent."

"I'm starting to feel that you never think about the full results of your intentions," he said coolly.

Cole scrambled up from his bedroll and strode over to them, taking the bracelet from Sinead.

"I'll keep it," he said quickly.

"There is no benefit to your keeping it. You are not a mage."

"I'll keep it," he said firmly. "To keep it safe. Like the hairpins."

She stared at him a moment, then nodded. "If that is what you wish." She wandered over to her things and began mechanically packing.

"Thank you," Dorian said, sagging a little. "She was awfully persistent for someone without an emotional connection to an argument. I'm not quite sure why she'll listen to you when you say no, but not to me."

Tal-Ashkaari looked up from her things, a flicker of realization in her eyes. "You said it yourself, with the Tranquil you brought from the keep," she said slowly as she went over the idea in her mind. "I believe Sinead has 'impressed' upon Cole. Perhaps it is what all Tranquil do, a survival mechanism of some sort, so that there is someone to lead them?"

Dorian nodded, rubbing his chin. "That does explain some of the actions of Tranquil I have run across in the past. Cole, do you remember Samson's Tranquil lackey? The one who killed himself rather than betray Samson? I always thought it was strange – why would a person with no ability to form an emotional connection to another person take their own life to protect another person? If impression is a thing…well, it would certainly explain why Sinead happily stops doing whatever it is she's doing whenever you say the word."

Cole felt sick to his stomach. "Please don't say that. And please don't talk to her like you were. She can't feel your feelings, can't understand that you feel guilty for not feeling more guilt."

Dorian furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to say something. Then his face softened. "I thought you weren't listening."

"I don't always have to listen to know."

"Touché." Dorian rubbed his neck. "I'll try to be more considerate in the future. This is…rather difficult for all of us, it seems."

Cole nodded and began packing his things. He carefully pulled his scarf from his pack – the bright blue one Sinead had given him for Satinalia – and unfolded it on his bedroll, revealing the hairpins. He touched them lightly, placed the bracelet next to them, then wound the scarf around Sinead's things tightly, and buried them within his pack.

* * *

As they neared the end of the Silent Plains, Krem began to perk up.

"More bushes now," he said cheerfully as they made camp one night. "I give us a day, and we'll be seeing actual farmland again. Shit farmland, but at least there'll be green plants."

Tal-Ashkaari looked around at the darkening fields. "I am pleased by this. I do miss trees."

"I never realized how deadly dull the color brown was until now," Dorian said. "I think I'm going to avoid browns in my wardrobe for quite some time."

Sinead, as always, said nothing. She was staring at the stars as they appeared in the sky, then making marks on a notebook.

Cole also said nothing, though he listened to the conversation. He worked at his little carving. He had thinned the cylinder of wood, and was now tracing winding knots into it with the edge of his knife, still not quite sure what he was making.

"Excuse me."

He looked up from his project. Out of the darkness, two elves appeared, a young man and woman, ragged and dirty and carrying small bundles on their backs. They looked tired and worn, and their boots were in tatters. The man was holding the woman by the shoulders.

Krem stood up from feeding the fire. "Hello to you. You two look like you've seen better days."

The woman laughed hollowly. "Not really."

"Is there any way we can share your fire for the night?" the man said, tightening his grip on the woman. "We've been without a fire for warmth for a few days now. I…can't keep one going out here for some reason."

"Of course." Krem motioned to the fire. "Make yourselves comfortable."

The elves both gave him a look of relief and took spots next to the fire, holding their hands out to the warmth.

"I take it neither of you have passed through the Silent Plains before?" Dorian said, eyeing the elves critically.

"No," the young man said carefully. "We are journeying south. I heard there was work in Nevarra to be had. I didn't realize that these plains would be so difficult to pass through."

"There are things out there," the woman said, staring into the night and shuddering. "It's awful."

"You shouldn't be encountering anything if you stuck to the highway the whole way," Krem said. "You haven't been trying to pass through the plains off road, have you?"

The elves went silent, rubbing their hands and arms to get warm. Krem and Dorian shared a look.

Krem coughed. "So. Would you like something to eat? Looks like neither of you have had a good meal in a while."

"Or ever," Dorian said. "It's no wonder you ran."

"Damn it, Dorian…"

The elves stood quickly.

"Wait! Don't run off!" Krem held up his hands. "None of us are going to turn in escaped slaves! We're not that kind of crew. But I don't know why you came to some strange fire in the night. For all you knew we were slavers. Or opportunists."

"We saw the Qunari woman, and my sister wanted to take the risk," the young man said warily. "She says she hears things in the dark, even if we have a fire going."

"It's terrible," the woman said. "I feel like they're clawing at my thoughts."

"Well, we can't really help you after today – we're heading north, not south. But tonight, stay by the fire and shake off the chills. Have something to eat." Krem unpacked a pot and poured a skin of water in it, then started cutting up roots and throwing them in. "See? It'll be something edible eventually. I can't imagine what you two have been living on."

"Jules, they look safe," the woman whispered.

The young man studied Krem, then glanced around the group, paying particular attention to Sinead, who was the only one not focused on him and his sister – she still studied the sky.

"Okay," he said reluctantly. "Only for the night."

The elves sat down again. Krem smiled and tossed them each a hard roll.

"Now that you've decided to share our company, I demand a tale of woe," Dorian said. "What was so desperate about your situation that you decided to make a run for Nevarra?"

The elves were silent a moment. Then the young man began to speak in a low voice.

"It was my sister. She caught the notice of our master…"

Cole stopped listening to the conversation. He studied the elves. Something about them felt  _wrong_ , though he was not sure why. They seemed sincere, certainly looked like they had seen trouble. But he did not have that innate, desperate need to help them that usually came when he met people like this pair. Even without his mind tuned in to the others' thoughts, that feeling should have still been there, prodding him to try to do something.

He had to know why. Which meant that he had to listen, even if that exposed him to the void of Sinead's thoughts. He clenched his teeth and opened his mind.

And was filled with guilt and sadness and anger and hope and confusion and desperation and –

He cringed. It had been days since he willingly listened in on others, and the flood of emotions were difficult to parse through. But soon the confusion cleared, and he could feel whose feelings were whose. And the elves' thoughts were not those of escaped slaves. They were too sharp, too focused, too keen, anticipating accolades, building lies atop old family truths.

They were believers in the tales that were told to them of Arlathan's return, followers of the man who claimed to be eternal, one team of many who were scouting the highways for signs of the one whom their master needed to build a new utopia. And now they had the blessings of the gods, for surely these people were the ones He had spoken of, had called upon His followers to find.

They were Titus's. And if they were not stopped, they would run to him and tell him where Sinead was located – lead him to her, and she would be stolen away.

They would have to die.

He glanced at Sinead, making marks in her notebook, her thoughts hidden from him by her lack of feeling. If she still had her emotions, she would have hated this conclusion – that the elves would die so that she would not be pursued. They were zealots, but those who knew no better, told since early youth a tale that was better than truth. How could they make a choice when the choices given to them were so few?

This was too complex for such simple solutions.

"It's been difficult," the young man said. "We've had to stay from the roads. But –"

"They don't want  _you_  to bring back Arlathan."

Cole let the words tumble out, and immediately knew they were the wrong ones. Too fast, too sudden – they had been lied to for too long.

The young woman narrowed her eyes at him. "What did you say?"

"Bridget…"

"Hush, Jules. What did you say about Arlathan?"

It was too late – the young woman was already suspicious. She was the harder of the two, the one who wanted to believe, wanted to trust the lies. But the young man, if he could make him understand…

"The dreaming drifters. The wanderers. They wait for one to wake them, to make the world right. But it's not  _you_  they want help from." He spoke quickly, trying to get the words out before they had time to react. "The people here are silent to them – like living dolls, listless. Everyone is shemlen, even those who bear their blood.  _You_  aren't the ones to bring them back – they wouldn't let you, any of you." He looked the young man in the eye. "Not even Titus."

The young woman leapt to her feet at the same time Krem did, sword in hand.

"Sit back down," Krem said sharply. "You're going to tell us who the fuck you are. And this time, I want you to tell the damn truth."

"Bridget, listen to him," the young man said, holding up his hands.

"How did you know?" The woman was frantic. "How could you possibly know?"

At a speed that blurred her hands, she pulled a knife from her boot and flipped back to Tal-Ashkaari. She took the Qunari woman by the horn, slammed her head against the ground and held the blade to her throat as Dorian and Cole jumped up, Cole grabbing up his knives.

"Not another step, or I'll slit her throat!" she said furiously. She nodded her head at Dorian. "And you'd better not move your hands, Vint. Even a twitch and she's dead, clear?"

"Crystal," Dorian replied coolly, freezing in place.

Sinead was no longer looking at the stars. She lifted from her bedroll, looking blankly from the young woman to the young man.

"Are you here for me?"

"Are you Sinead?" The young man's voice was shaky.

"I am."

"Good." The young woman nodded at the horses. "Mount up. We're going for a ride."

"Understood. I will go without argument. There is no need for harm to be done to my friend. But I do wish to bring supplies."

"Get on the damn horse!"

"Bridget, she's cooperating," the young man pleaded. "Let her gather her things."

The young woman made a disgusted noise. "Fine. Be quick."

Sinead nodded and started rolling up her bedroll.

Cole was still looking at the young man. He had to keep trying. "He's using you. All of you," he said quickly. "He says he'll bring peace, but what he wants is power. Every life he takes adds to it, every generation another step closer. And  _you_  aren't the ones he wants to help. He'll slash and slaughter his supporters until he's successful."

"Shut up!" the young woman snapped.

"He won't stop. He can't now – too many of his kin have been killed for the cause. How many people have you known who've disappeared, Jules?"

"I said shut up!"

The young man stared at Cole, a troubled look on his face. Within him was a range of emotions – confusion, doubt, anger, righteousness…memory. Of friends in childhood who had gone missing without a word from the adults. "How many…have disappeared?"

The young woman glanced over at the young man. "Don't listen to his tripe! Get the horses ready."

The glance was a moment. An instant. But it was enough. Cole threw his knife at the woman, catching her in the arm. It jerked back, her blade flying from her hand as his second knife took her in the chest. She fell back, lifeless.

"Bridget!" The young man's face twisted in anguish.

Krem charged him, reaching for his collar. The young man flashed Cole a sorrowful look, then jumped up, his body shifting and contorting into a small, blue bird. Krem skidded to a halt, astonished as the bird took to the sky, becoming invisible almost instantly in the dark of the night.

"Well, shit." He jammed the point of his sword into the soft sod. "Shit."

"How many mages can turn into birds?" Cole asked, equally amazed. "I thought it was only Morrigan."

"Not many, but more than the one," Dorian said, looking up at the sky where the bird had vanished from sight. "It's a witchy sort of thing – hedgemage stuff. What on earth sparked that little monologue of yours?"

"They worship Titus. They shouldn't."

"Hm."

Krem kneeled over Tal-Ashkaari, helping her sit up. "You okay?"

She rubbed at her neck. "Yes. Though I fear I will soon have an unpleasant headache."

"I have a healing potion that may help." Sinead stopped packing her things and rummaged through her bags, then tossed a vial at Krem.

"Thanks. And keep packing." Krem twirled his finger in the air. "Everyone pack up. We need to move. Now."

"On the run, are we?" Dorian crossed his arms. "If that little bird sings, they'll be looking for us on the highway."

"I know. We're crossing the plains."

"Ah.  _Wonderful_."

Within half an hour the camp was packed up, the fire kicked out and its ashes scattered. Dorian burned the young elf's body, leaving as little trace of it as possible.

"We're moving fast," Krem said, lighting his lantern and hanging it from Cole's horse's saddle. "I want to get a good distance from the highway. Sinead, you'll have to lead us – you've got the phylactery. Ride with Cole."

"Understood."

Cole raised his brows. "I'm not – I don't –"

"I know, but even like this she's no rider," Krem said gently. "I don't want her riding off without us. And I'm not carrying that thing. Gives me the creeps."

" _You_  could ride with her," Cole said, voice low.

"Don't really think that's my place." Krem glanced at Sinead and pulled in close to Cole. "You're going to have to deal with this eventually. She's not getting any less Tranquil."

Cole was silent a moment. Then he nodded, helped Sinead onto his horse, and mounted up behind her. Sinead pulled the phylactery out of her shirt and hovered it in front of her from left to right until the glow grew bright when it pointed east and just a little north. She let it drop, dangling in front of her shirt, a glowing red spark in the black. Cole kicked the horse into a gallop, and the others followed behind, shadows in the darkness.

They rode in silence save the hoof beats for an hour before Krem called to Cole to slow the horses to a walk to allow them to rest.

"Keep them moving, though," he said. "I want Satina over our shoulders before we make camp again."

"That won't be for a few hours at least," Dorian said. "The horses shouldn't be pushed that hard."

"They'll be fine if we switch back and forth between walking and galloping."

"Fair enough. But I suspect you'll want us up and on the move early? Keep the pace fast?"

"Yup."

"And would that have more to do with Titus pursuing us or our supplies being able to hold out across these barren plains? Especially if we hit the mountains before we find a village or town? Not to mention clean sources of water…"

Krem was quiet before he replied. "I told you, there's forts throughout the plains. We're likely to find one within a few days to trade with. And there's a few brooks and creeks – just have to be careful. Can't eat the fish. Might be tainted."

"If we suffer from low supplies, this situation has become nearly untenable," Sinead said. "We should consider all options before continuing forward."

"And what options do you want us considering, exactly?" Krem asked warily.

"This campaign has become an effort to keep my live body from coming into the possession of a mage with disreputable designs. Quite different from the information quest of its beginnings." Sinead's blank voice echoed over the empty plains, mingling with the hushing creak of nocturnal insects. "I cannot be taken alive by Titus – his full plans are unknown, but clearly unpleasant. He must also be studied, stopped. His acolytes have come to harm due to his actions, if Cole's speech was true.

"But he cannot be fully stopped until this pursuit is at an end, and his pursuit will not end until he either finds me, or I am no longer part of the equation."

"Meaning…"

"Meaning she wants to die." Cole tightened his grip on the reins, staring over the curls of the empty girl pressed against him. Frustration roiled in him, and hopelessness. "Even like this, you want to die. No darkness dimming the edges, no panic pricking you, but you'll still end your life before you'll think of yourself as an inconvenience."

"I do not wish to die. I am simply naming an obvious option to cease this endless pursuit. I shall die, and Titus shall become the prey. Four lives are not worth one – if starving becomes a true threat, it is the best course to take."

"It is  _not_ ," Cole snapped. "Am I never going to prove that you aren't a burden?"

"Am I not?" Sinead pressed her hand against her dead arm. "I am maimed. I have no fighting skill. I have no power. I can treat injury with potions, but beyond that I am unable to help. We are in the wilderness, and I am the least adapted to this situation.

"Further, I have caused an unnecessary emotional toll by my continued presence, particularly with you. For instance, you did not wish to ride with me."

He stiffened. "I didn't."

"Because you mourn for who I was."

"Yes." He nearly whispered it.

"This mourning is impractical. What is done is done, and is likely to never be undone."

"Not true," Dorian said quickly. "We know how Tranquility is cured now. When you get back to Skyhold, you could be fixed up, right as rain."

"The cure is new and untested," she replied mechanically. "It is also dangerous. There shall be years of study before the Tranquil cure becomes common. By this time, I may be deemed an unsuitable candidate for the cure – the longer one is Tranquil, the more volatile emotional reemergence is. Thus –"

"Sinead. You're hurting me." Cole said it quietly. Slowly.

"This is the impracticality I speak of. Emotional burden can lead to irrational decisions. I have thought of this."

His chest was tight, aching. He took a few breaths. "You cannot die," he said firmly. "Not on purpose."

Sinead went silent.

"…if that is what you wish," she said finally.

Cole's heart sank. "It is," he said, resigned.

"I knew that odd devotion would come in handy," Dorian muttered behind him.


	22. Eluard

Six days in the Silent Plains, and they never came across a fort. They found sources of water, but game was scarce. The small scurrying creatures remained unseen.

The whispering was noticeably louder, though Cole was not sure if it was because they were within the plains or because he kept his mind open to watch for pursuit from Titus or his followers. The sad songs followed him, feeding him a history of war and pain and death. He wanted to shut it out, but feared missing Titus or his followers again. The others could not hear the whispers, but they wrapped around them and made them jumpy – made them stare at shadows.

They pressed the horses on, but the more they ate at the brown grasses, the more difficult they became to control. By the time they crossed out of the plains into the rocky foothills of the Hundred Pillars, the horses were shying at every noise and restlessly pawing when tacked up for the night.

They passed no villages, no signs of life at the edge of the plains and the beginnings of the mountains, and though the phylactery pointed to the Hundred Pillars, due east now, the glow grew no brighter. They were fourteen days from the bridge. Fifteen. Sixteen, without seeing another sentient soul.

Krem began carefully rationing their supplies, trying his best to stretch them as far as possible. As they moved further into the mountains, gaining elevation, he took them down to half a roll and a strip of dried meat per meal – he let Cole eat what was left of the beans, keeping him to a cup and no more. He hunted every evening when they made camp, with no luck. The mountains weren't bare – grasses and shrubs clung to the rocky soil, green life after weeks of brown. But if there was animal life, it made itself scarce.

Cole had never been so hungry without the ability to ease the pain in his stomach. Not since he stayed by the side of the other Cole, the one whom he could not help. The food was enough to keep him going, but not enough for satisfaction. He felt tired. Weak. It made him irritable, though he kept it to himself – everyone was irritable, snapping at each other, treating headaches with herbs. Only Sinead remained serene, unable to be annoyed or angered by hunger. She once again sat in her own horse, staring blankly at the narrow path they took as they ascended into the mountains.

One day Krem returned to camp beaming, four dressed nugs bound together and slung across his back.

"We feast tonight," he joked, dropping them in front of the fire and quartering them.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but those nugs look delicious," Dorian said. "I've become everything I hate."

"I have heard that nug is a delicacy among the dwarves," Tal-Ashkaari said, eyeing the meat in anticipation as Krem skewered it and placed it over the fire.

Cole felt the last moments of each of the nugs, their fear, their frantic flight, the finality of death. He shuddered. But as the meat cooked, the smell made his stomach growl. He felt light-headed.

Soon Krem was passing the meat around, making sure everyone had an equal share. To Cole's surprise, Krem set a stack of legs on his lap. The heat seeped through his trousers, the smell making him dizzy.

"I…can't," he said, scooping up the legs and holding them up to Krem.

"You have a soft heart. I get it." Krem took one of the legs and waved it in front of Cole's face. "But you need food. Energy. You're losing weight the fastest. Your shirt's hanging off you. This is about survival, and you're going to survive." He set the leg against Cole's lips. "Eat."

Reluctantly, Cole took a bite. It was delicious. Delectable. Dependent on the death of an innocent. But he wanted more, needed it to keep going the next day. Feeling guilty, he took the leg from Krem and picked it clean.

Krem grinned and slapped his shoulder. "It's not forever. We'll be out of the woods eventually."

Cole gave him a confused look. "We aren't in the woods."

"No, I mean – listen, just eat up, okay?"

The further into the mountains they traveled, the luckier Krem was with hunting – birds, nugs, rabbits, the land was alive with game. And the more meat Cole ate, feeling sick while feeling phenomenally better physically – all those small lives lost so that he would live.

He felt frazzled, frayed at the ends. He  _hated_  this journey. Hated the guilt and the sadness and the pain and the mourning and the exhaustion and the hunger and the fear and the illness and the bickering and the constant need to kill. He was angry, and sad, and frustrated, and wanted to stay still for a moment, or maybe run far away. He felt that every step he took led him further into failure – that his one purpose, to help, had become hopeless. He curled up on his bedroll at night, head filled with the feelings of the others and the missing blankness from Sinead, sleeping fitfully, in and out of the Fade.

Dorian drew him aside during a midday break one day, dragging him away from the others and sitting him down on a small rock ringed with weeds. He took off Cole's hat, poured something from a small vial into his hands and rubbed it over the stubble on Cole's face.

"You're faltering," he said, wiping his hands off with a cloth. He pulled a razor from a leather pouch at his feet, took Cole by the chin and carefully started to shave him. "What did I tell you about shaving? Every morning, or else you start looking like a desperate drunk. And I know you haven't decided to commit to properly caring for a full beard."

"It doesn't matter," Cole said dully. "Looking never mattered."

"Au Contraire." Dorian swiped the blade of the razor on the cloth and continued clearing Cole's cheeks of hair. "We are all stinking of the road and sweat and our general body odor. We're half-starved, hunted, and cut off from any help. And you are falling headlong into a bout of melancholia. That, my friend, is the time when looking matters most. Looking keeps you in a routine. Keeps you thinking about getting though the day."

He finished the shave and wiped Cole's face clean, then combed Cole's hair back with his fingers and put the hat back on his head. "Now that's better."

"I'm still the same as before." Cole lowered the hat over his eyes. "No, I'm worse than before. I'm eating the kindest creatures, and had to kill the woman, and the man flew away, and I dropped the tools and I wasn't fast enough, Dorian. Everything is wrong now. I'm wrong. I'm not.… I'm not helping anymore."

"Now that is certainly not right." Dorian pulled up his hat. "You are still Cole. A Cole who's had quite an exciting few weeks and suffered a personal loss, but that doesn't mean you aren't still you. The hardest part of living is moving past our worst moments and continuing on. Believe me, I know."

"You continue on, but think you do it badly."

"Very badly." He chuckled sadly. "A lot of wine, a lot of self-pity. But it's either move forward or sink. I'm not the type to sink, and I don't think you are, either."

"You're better than you think, Dorian."

Dorian smiled. "So are you, Cole."

* * *

The air was cool and crisp the day that the mountain path narrowed into a thin bottleneck, the cliffs so close that Cole could feel the stone scraping against his boots. He looked up – the sky was high above, a narrow strip of blue.

Tal-Ashkaari was taking deep breaths, her cheeks a pale lavender. "I do not like this," she said. "It is as if the mountain is swallowing us whole."

"I understand. I feel the same."

She looked back at Cole with her brows raised. "You fear small spaces as well?"

"No. I never was stuck somewhere small. But it's the same with the depth for me."

"The…"

"The sea," Krem prompted. "Had a whole thing on the ship over here. Afraid of the briny deep."

"Ah. Were you once trapped in a storm at sea?"

"No."

"Did you once nearly drown?"

"No."

"Then why…?"

Cole shrugged. "The depth wants to swallow, too. Like the walls of the mountain."

She paled further. "Ah."

"But the stones are still. Solid," Cole said quickly. "They cannot swallow, no matter how much they want to. They are trapped, not you."

Tal-Ashkaari started at him a moment. "That…does bring me comfort. Thank you."

As she looked forward, Dorian glanced back and gave him a quick smile and a nod. For the first time in weeks he felt a flicker of happiness before it was drowned out by the ache.

They rode on for another quarter of an hour before suddenly the path opened up into a wide, green valley walled in on all sides by high cliffs. The path on which they had entered was the only opening to this patch of green. To the north, a waterfall fell into a clear pond from a dizzying height.

Sinead stopped her horse and held up the phylactery.

"The glow has grown in intensity." She walked her horse toward the waterfall and stopped it in front of the pond. The red light in the vial strengthened until it was blinding. "Eluard is close."

"A hidden cavern, perhaps?" Dorian dismounted and removed the bridle from his horse, rubbing its nose. "We've encountered more than a few of those behind waterfalls in the last year or so."

Krem shrugged. "Won't know until we take a look."

They unpacked the horses, made camp, then took up their arms and walked around the pool to the waterfall. A pile of stacked stones led up and behind the rushing water to a shallow, low-ceilinged cave smoothly carved into the cliff face.

"Secret cavern," Dorian said with a nod as they crowded into the cave. "There doesn't seem to be a waterfall in Thedas without one."

Krem moved to the back of the cave and ran his hand over the stone. "Here we go. Thick crack that runs up to the ceiling – probably a door. And lettering's been carved at eye level. Can't make out what it says, though. Sinead, can you read this?"

Sinead slid between Tal-Ashkaari and Dorian and stood beside Krem, cocking her head.

"It is multiple languages," she said, running her fingers over the lettering as she spoke. "First line, Elvhen – Family, or Lineage. Second line, Dwarven – Entrance Fee. Third line, Old Tevine. Blood Writing."

"Maker's balls, another puzzle?"

"A simplistic one." She slid her knife up in its sheath and made a large cut in her thumb. "My blood is the fee." She traced over each letter with her thumb, leaving a trail of blood in the shallow carving. As she did so, the blood began to glow a bright red, and when she traced over the final letter, the cracks in the stone flashed with a white light and the wall moved back, stone grinding against stone. Beyond the door was a well-lit stairway that led down at a steep, storied incline.

"Of course. Can't have blood mages without the blood," Dorian said. "I suppose we're going down?"

"Wait." Cole held up a hand and tipped his head. "He's here."

Krem narrowed his eyes. "He's where?"

A distant pounding came from below, growing louder and closer.

"What in Andraste's –"

A tall, older man in a well-worn robe, wiry and grey and sporting a trimmed beard, turned a corner on the stairway, ran up the last flight, elbowed Krem out of the way and wrapped his arms around Sinead, lifting her and swinging her around.

"Maker's breath, it's about time!" he cried, dropping her on her feet and pushing her back, his face filled with joy. "I lost sight of you weeks ago – thought the worst happened. Look at you. Look at what you've become!" He took her head between his hands. "Andraste's flames, you're a vision of your mother. Though that chin, those cheekbones, that's all Marcus. And I fear you've inherited his stature – you look like you haven't grown an inch since I saw you last. I –"

His smile dropped. He furrowed his brows and examined her eyes.

"I take it you're Eluard," Krem said, rubbing his arm.

"What? Yes. Well, that's who  _she_  knows me as," he said absently. "Sinead, what's wrong with your eyes? They're like blacked out windows."

Sinead blinked. She was unnaturally still, unaffected by Eluard's exuberant greeting. "Hello, Eluard. You look much the same as I remember."

Eluard's face fell. Slowly he let her go, straightened, crossed his arms as he stared at her.

"When did it happen?"

"About three weeks ago," Krem said quietly. "Ran into some rogue Templars. Not the red kind – a different kind of zealous."

"I see." Eluard shook his head. "Well. I expected a fraught reunion, but not this." He rubbed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "What a mess of things I've made. If Glidda was still alive, she would stab me in the kidney and twist the knife." He looked around at the crew. "Maker, you all look terrible. Well, no use standing around while the waterfall soaks us through. Come in."

With that, he walked down the stairs. Without hesitation Sinead made to follow after him. Krem took her by the hand.

"Wait. I'm not so sure we should be wandering into some mage's mountain lair without vetting him first."

"I wouldn't call it a lair, really," Eluard said, stopping at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. "A mountain bungalow, more like."

"A bungalow, by definition, has to be above ground," Dorian replied. "Well, he's certainly some kind of crazed, but I don't get the sense that he's a megalomaniac like the other one."

Krem looked at Cole inquisitively.

Cole shrugged. "I can't hear him. He's blocking me. But he feels safe. Secure. Sound of mind."

Eluard climbed up a few stairs. "What did you just say? You can't  _hear_  me?"

"He reads minds, Eluard," Sinead said in her monotone. "Emotions and memories particularly."

Eluard eyed Cole in such a way that he felt as if his head was being observed, analyzed, critiqued. He wondered if the sensation was similar to his own gaze, which people had complained about to him in the past.

"You're welcome to stay in the valley, but it's not fully warded," Eluard said finally. "And, to be frank, the lot of you need baths, beds and proper food. You're not the most ragged folk I've seen in my day, but you've clearly had a hard journey. I have a stew cooking – lentil, turnip, potato and barley. No meat down below, I'm afraid. Never have been much of a hunter, and it doesn't store as long as the other staples. But there's more than enough wine to make up for it."

"You had me at wine." Dorian pushed past Krem, took Sinead by the arm and looped it through his. "Come, my dear. Let's meet this old mentor of yours. He seems like a fascinating and charitable fellow."

The crew followed Eluard down four flights of stairs, the entrance to his bungalow lair sliding back into place above. They descended into a small, square room with pegs lined up on the wall for cloaks. Eluard pressed a square stone mechanism, and one of the walls slid back, revealing a large, brightly lit, open room with a high ceiling. Over a dozen pillowy chairs were positioned around the room, their short wooden legs sinking into a thick, multicolored rug. There was a doorway to the west that led off to a long hallway, and another doorway to the north. Bookcases lined every wall, filled with tomes of every type as well as thin wooden boxes that held game boards. There were tables next to each chair, some holding chessboards set up and ready for play, others holding ceramic knickknacks of behatted nugs.

"I've never been in a lair filled with curios before," Krem said, picking up a nug figurine wearing the Divine's tri-cornered hat.

"I don't really go for trinkets," Eluard said as he led them through the long sitting room. "But one of my charges once told me that I needed to make this place feel more homey. Every time she visited the market, she'd bring back a nug and name it. They've grown on me." He smiled. "That one's Penelope."

Krem set down the nug, a bemused look on his face.

They took the northern doorway and entered a small dining hall with two long, benched tables. Shelves filled with dishes stood against the wall at the head of each table. Eluard grabbed a number of mugs and continued on.

Past the dining hall was an enormous kitchen – something Cole had only ever seen at big places, like Halamshiral. Even Skyhold's kitchen was far smaller than this one, with its fireplace and ovens taking up one wall, and shelves and counters holding dishes and pots and pans and spices and goods, and a large, central preparation table. A door that presumably led to a pantry was on the opposite wall from the fireplace. A cauldron hung over the lively fire bubbled with something that smelled delicious.

Eluard set the mugs on the table, disappeared for a moment behind the wooden door, and returned with a few bottles of wine. He poured a mug for everyone, passed it out, then grabbed a wooden spoon from the table, leaned near the fire and stirred the contents of the pot.

"You came at the right time. It'll be done soon. Just needs to thicken a little." He set the wooden spoon on the table and clapped his hands. "Now. I imagine you all have questions, queries, and concerns. Completely understandable. But first thing's first. Sinead, I want to see that arm of yours."

Without pause, Sinead approached him and unbuckled her dead arm. Eluard grabbed it up, twisting and turning it. He frowned.

"Why is your hand so contorted?"

"It was broken and improperly healed."

"I was working in the dark of a moving carriage," Dorian said defensively. "It wasn't exactly ideal healing conditions."

Eluard nodded, pulled a knife from his belt and made a small cut in his arm. His eyes glowed red as he continued to examine the arm.

"This damage is incredible. You realize this, I hope? It's as if you sapped the life from your appendage. You're lucky it didn't necrotize or disintegrate."

Sinead watched him with her blank expression. "I remember thinking that my arm was not important at the time. I do not remember why."

Everyone in the crew but Sinead looked at Cole. He felt as if his heart was being squeezed in a tight fist.

Eluard noticed the group's focus on Cole.

"Ah. So you're the fellow she's become so enamored with," he said, laying Sinead's hand flat on the table and pulling a wooden rolling pin from one of the shelves. "And you're the one she nearly lost her life to save? I was in quite a state when I checked in on her that week, let me tell you. Nearly blew things up to fetch her away. I was on my way to Val Royeaux until I was sure she'd come back from the brink. Though given our current situation, I suppose it may have been better the long run if I had taken her back then. All right, everyone, if any of you have a weak stomach, I recommend looking away."

Without further warning, he slammed the rolling pin onto Sinead's hand three times. Tal-Ashkaari winced and turned her head and Dorian cringed. Eluard set the rolling pin aside, and, bones cracking as he worked, he set the hand. His eyes glowed red for a moment, then he picked up Sinead's hand and manipulated the fingers.

"There we are, much better. Still an unfeeling lump of flesh, but at least you'll be able to get it in and out of a glove if need be. Unfortunately, I can't do much with the arm – it would take an incredible amount of power to heal at this point. The nerves are essentially nonexistent." He sighed and laid her arm on the table. "You foolish girl. What did I tell you about pushing yourself too far?"

"To do so is courting death." Sinead buckled her arm into its holster. "I did not mind doing so at the time. I do not remember why."

"Hm. Must have been quite the emotional reasoning, then." Eluard arched a brow at Cole.

Cole looked at his feet. Then, to his surprise, Eluard had him by the chin and forced his head up. The old mage stared into his eyes like he was staring at the bottom of a deep pool.

"So you  _are_  what I thought," Eluard said finally, releasing him. "I suspected spirit, but it seemed highly unlikely. Perhaps you were simply possessed, I reasoned. But things are never so simple, are they? So, who are you, exactly?"

"Cole." Cole rubbed his chin irritably. "I've been Cole for a while now."

"Ah, of course. My apologies, I didn't realize you had a name. And you waltzed right out of the Fade and decided to become human on a whim?"

"No. Things are never so  _simple_." Cole kept his voice level.

Eluard grinned. "Naturally. Fascinating. I've never seen such a thing, and believe me, I've had the time to see many bizarre things."

"More evidence that spirits becoming people is a rare event, then." Tal-Ashkaari opened her notebook and made a mark with her pencil.

Eluard shot the Qunari woman a hard look. "Spirits  _are_  people, young lady. The people of this world refuse to acknowledge this to their detriment. Being ethereal rather than physical does not preclude personhood."

"Of course." She gave Cole a sheepish look. "I apologize, Cole."

"I knew what you meant. He did, too." Cole frowned. "You didn't have to make her feel foolish."

Eluard leaned against the table and crossed his arms. "Hm. Given your general demeanor, I assume that you're a spirit of Crankiness."

"I'd ask that you be gentle with him, if you please," Dorian said sharply. "He's had a hard time of it lately. Sinead, I take back what I said earlier about your former master being charitable."

"Oh, what, this?" Eluard waved a hand at the silent, still, blank Sinead. "Is this what's making you out of sorts? Then we best fix her up quickly. It's been some time since I've had visitors, and I'd rather not be host to despondent brooders."

Cole's mouth dropped. He went numb, then flushed. "You can…bring her back?"

Everyone spoke at once.

"Wait, wh –"

"I thought –"

"You're –"

Eluard held up a hand. "Stop! Goodness, I must stop assuming that the world is a sane place to live and what I know is obvious. Tranquility is easy enough to cure, so long as you know what you're doing. I can bring her back – or, I can ask one of my friends to, anyway. Sinead had a wide range of emotional foci, so it's likely someone among my friends will be drawn to her."

"I thought you simply had to lure a spirit into, ah, touching you, whatever that means," Dorian said.

"'Touching.' Is that how it's described by the Chantry?" Eluard chuckled. "I suppose it does sound less blasphemous than what it is. It's essentially a short-term possession, a spirit slipping in and out of a person, as if they were passing through a door. Any spirit will do, even a demon, though demons are unlikely to want to let go once they've entered." He rubbed his chin. "Not that spirits are any less tricky. They aren't keen on curing just anyone – they want to… 'touch' those they feel a connection with. Those they are pulled toward."

Cole's heart began to pound. He grabbed the edge of the table. "Let's do it now," he said excitedly.

"Wait a moment, it takes some preparation." Eluard held up a finger. "We'll have to ward against demons. To demons, a recently un-Tranquil person is like a herd of sheep to a dragon. The demons will flock to her. And it may take time to find a spirit willing to touch her. They can be quite fickle."

"But you'll do it. You must," Cole pleaded, his heart welling over with hope. "She can't stay like this forever."

"I agree. Though she may not. She still possesses her own will, after all." Eluard placed a hand on Sinead's shoulder. "Do you wish to remain as you are, or be as you were?"

"You ask for my opinion?"

"It's your head, my girl. You should have a say."

Sinead was silent for a moment. She looked at Cole.

"I remember moments of irrationality – when I was unable to catch my breath, and considering self-harm and death. Was I unsafe as I was?"

"…no," Cole said hesitantly. "Not always. Only when the darkness closed in on you."

Eluard narrowed his eyes. "The darkness?"

"Melancholia," Dorian prompted. "She has quite the case."

For the first time since they arrived, Eluard was taken aback. "Since when? She was a well-balanced child."

Cole played with his hands, reluctant to speak. "Since you killed her mother and left her alone."

"Excuse me?" Dorian said in shock.

"Wait, this guy killed her mom?" Krem burst out. "What the fuck? And we've been chasing after him?"

Tal-Ashkaari took a few steps back. "Surely there is an explanation, Cole."

"She was dying, would die, horribly," Cole said quickly. "Tainted by blight. And he left to help another."

"Yes. Though I was unsuccessful with that one." Eluard's voice was sorrowful. He ran a hand over Sinead's hair. "I am so sorry, my girl. I never wanted to leave you hurting."

"I do not hurt now." Sinead was still looking at Cole. "Is it better to be hurting?"

"I…" Cole stopped. He mulled over the question. "Sometimes no," he said finally. "Mostly yes."

"Would you recommend that I re-establish a connection with the Fade?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed.

She nodded. "If that is what you wish."

Eluard raised his brows. "It's your decision, my girl. Why are you asking for his input?"

"Because I trust and respect his opinion."

Though she said it with her monotone, and her face was blank, Cole's stomach dipped. "You do?"

"Yes. You are my closest friend, Cole."

He placed a hand on his aching chest.

"Well, how about that," Dorian murmured.

"Hm." Eluard squeezed Sinead's shoulder and nodded. "Very well, let's see what we can do."

Cole's heart leapt. "Now?"

"Absolutely not. I'm not doing big magic until I have something in my stomach." He pulled a stack of bowls off a shelf and passed them out. "Let's eat."


	23. Into the Fade

Cole ate quickly, scraping at the bottom of this bowl before the others were half-finished, then fidgeting and pacing around the sitting room while he waited for the others. He tried to occupy himself by looking through the books and games, but he was far too excited to focus – his mind knew he was trying to trick it with distractions and refused to play along.

Then, frustratingly, Eluard insisted that the crew gather their gear from the valley, and led them through the west hallway to a corridor of rooms.

“Take your pick,” he said. “They’re all ready for guests, and each one has a bathing room and water closet. This place was built by dwarven architects, you know. They have a thing about bathing rooms. Anyway, I make mention of it because the lot of you need to bathe. Immediately. My lair is well-ventilated, and I’m not unaccustomed to uncleanliness, but I have my limits. There are clothes in the wardrobes of various sizes – I hope you don’t mind robes.” He gave Tal-Ashkaari a critical look. “I may have to find something special for you. I never really had tall people in my charge…”

Bursting with impatience, Cole blurted, “Why are we wasting time? We can wait until we’ve helped Sinead to bathe.”

“Young man, I don’t want to drift off to sleep with the smell of stale sweat and unwashed hair in my nose. And Sinead will be uncomfortable enough when she wakes up. A soft robe and clean skin will go a long way in helping her transition back into normalcy.”

Cole huffed and slammed his way into one of the rooms, barely registering its décor or dimensions. He tossed his things in a corner, stripped down, and scrubbed himself hastily with a snatched up bar of soap under the running faucet of a stone tub built into the wall of the attached bathing room until the water ran clear when it touched him. He dried himself on a towel from a folded stack and pulled on a bright blue robe seized from a tall wooden wardrobe. Its hemline hit his ankles, and its sleeves were wide, the cuffs landing at his knuckles. He pushed them up his arms, tied a wide satin belt around his waist, and hurried from the room.

He found he needn’t have rushed – everyone else took their time. He could feel their satisfaction, relaxation, their letting go. Usually it would have made him happy. Now it grated on him. He paced around the sitting room while Eluard, calm and cool and unaffected by his impatience, read a leather-bound book.

Cole dropped into a chair next to Eluard, grabbing up a chess piece and rolling it in his hands. “Am I the only one who wants Sinead well?” he said irritably.

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to, unless you’re acting as a tutor,” Eluard replied, closing his book. “It makes you look like an ass. Everyone is clearly pleased that there is a solution to Sinead’s Tranquility, but they’re exhausted and malnourished. You have a particular reason for your eager energy.” He tapped his chest. “Love may make fools of us all, but it’s also quite the stimulant.” He motioned at the chess set. “We can pass the time, if you wish. Do you play?”

“No. Well, yes, I know the rules. A friend taught me.” Cole replaced the chess piece. “But I was never very good.”

“Being good at chess is all about thinking ahead – every action must be one of strategy. One can win from time to time if you play it by ear, reacting to your opponent’s moves as they’re made, but a master always approaches the game with a plan.” Eluard smiled. “I taught Sinead, you know. She was never very good at it, either.”

“Is it better to be a planner than a person who reacts?”

“For chess, yes.” Eluard shrugged. “But the world is complex. Being light on one’s feet, easily adaptable, can serve one just as well, don’t you think?”

As Cole considered this, Krem and Dorian entered the sitting room, in a green and deep red robe, respectively.

“I feel like I’m joining the historical reenactment society,” Dorian said, holding out his arms and letting the wide sleeves dangle in front of him. “When did you get these robes, the twelve hundreds?”

Eluard snorted. “I’m not _that_ old.”

“I don’t know, it’s pretty comfortable.” Krem pulled at the fabric at his chest. “More comfortable than what the Imperium folk wear today. All that leather, and hanging bits of fabric…”

“Fashion isn’t supposed to be comfortable,” Dorian grumped.

Tal-Ashkaari shuffled out of the corridor, her knees unable to move fully in her yellow robe. It hit her at mid-thigh, and the sleeves stopped midway down her forearm. “I must wash my clothes as soon as possible,” she said, carefully sitting in a chair. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Eluard, I cannot find a smaller robe in my wardrobe.” Sinead appeared in the doorway, holding the extra fabric of her grey robe up so that it did not drag on the floor. The sleeves engulfed her hands. “I shall need assistance finding one that fits me.”

“Must have been a man’s room previously,” Eluard mused. “No matter, that’ll do for now. It’s not as if you’re going cavorting. Right, first thing’s first.”

He led them back into the kitchen and through the pantry door – though the door did not actually lead to a pantry. Instead, it led to a small alcove that opened up to a long hallway of storage rooms. The first few were dedicated to foodstuffs. Beyond were rooms filled with crates and boxes piled up against the walls.

He motioned for Sinead to enter one of the rooms full of boxes.

“Lay down, if you will. Make yourself as comfortable as you can.” 

She complied, and as she did so he made a cut on his arm and began waving his hands in the air, his eyes glowing.

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “That ward is a bit much, don’t you think? Feels like a brick wall.”

“I’d rather not have an abomination running through my little mountain hideaway. They cause quite a mess.” Eluard waved a hand, finishing the spell. “There we are. Nothing of spirit should be able to get in or out of that.”

“Is it such a risk?” Tal-Ashkaari asked, alarmed.

“Magic’s always risky. Only the foolish and the naïve believe otherwise. I think she’ll be fine, but it’s always wise to be wary. Right. Sinead, are you ready?”

“I am as you need me to be.”

“Then I shall see you soon, my dear.”

“Wait, where’s the lyrium basin?” Dorian glanced around the storage room.

“Huh. You think I can’t get her there with blood? Besides, I never did like lyrium.” Eluard made a face as his eyes once again began to glow. “It feels unnatural, don’t you think?”

Sinead’s eyes rolled back in her head, and her body slumped flat against the ground.

“There we are. She should be safe in the Fade. Come along, come along.” He spoke as he walked them back to the sitting room. “Now, I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone – as I said, it may take some time to seek out a willing spirit to cure Sinead. Naturally, you are all welcome to raid the larder if you wish.”

“Are we not to follow you?” Tal-Ashkaari sounded disappointed.

“I’m not in the mood to babysit a whole crew of people,” Eluard said archly. “And yes, I understand that it wouldn’t be your first time, Dorian, but I’d like to have a mage on this side making sure things don’t go awry. You understand.”

“I’m not against holding down the fort,” Dorian conceded. “You’re not in danger of becoming an abomination, are you?”

“Of course I am.” Eluard fluffed up a few pillows on a chair and sat down with sigh. “But the risk is minimal. I’m a dreamer. Cole, if you would sit in the chair next to mine?”

“Why?”

“Well, you can sit on the floor, if you wish, but you may get a cramp…”

“Wait a moment, you’re a dreamer?” Dorian said, skeptical.

“I’m coming with you?” Cole said at the same time.

“Yes, I’m a dreamer, and yes, of course you’re coming with me. I haven’t spoken to Sinead in over ten years – you know her far better than I do. You are her closest friend, after all.” He smiled. “You can help me find someone to help.”

Cole went warm, his whole body brimming with anticipation.

“But the last Tevinter dreamer documented was hundreds of years ago.” Dorian crossed his arms. “Is this another strange cult thing? Secret dreamers?”

“Not quite. I told you, I’ll explain and answer questions later. We’re dealing with Sinead first. Cole?”

Cole bounded over to the chair Eluard indicated and shuffled out of his boots.

“I just need a bit of sleeping drought to put me under,” Eluard said, pulling a small vial from his pocket and setting it on the table. “Benefits of being a dreamer. So I’ll help you cross over first.”

Cole shook his head. “Oh, I don’t need magic to be myself in the Fade. I’m me when I sleep.”

Eluard cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “You’re a lucid dreamer? But I thought you weren’t a mage.”

“I’m not.”

“Hm.” Eluard tapped his fingers on the table. “Perhaps…well, that’s speculation that can be considered at another time.” He tossed the vial at Cole, who caught it deftly, and pulled another from his pocket and uncorked it. “Cheers.” He downed its contents in one swallow.

Cole scrambled with the cork, tossed it on the floor and swallowed the sleeping drought. Immediately he felt heavy, his eyes unable to stay open. He fell back into the chair’s cushions as sleep took him.

And he was in the Fade. Specifically, he was in a small glade of golden grass that moved as if rustled by wind, though the air was still. Giant conifers ringed the glade, towers of ancient green. Purple irises grew in the glade in a snaking line from the forest’s edge to the feet of a translucent silver spirit with long, glittering hair. Eluard stood next to her, talking to her in a low voice until he spied Cole.

“Ah, so you did make it over without trouble.” Eluard waved Cole over. “I would like you to meet –“

“Peace,” Cole said. He nodded at the spirit. “Hello.”

“Hello to you, Compassion.” Peace gave him a bright smile. “Eluard, you didn’t tell me you were friends with this little one.”

“Compassion.” Eluard snapped his fingers. “Of course. Damn. I had hoped…” He paused. Cole gave him a curious look. “Never mind. Peace, who’s in your garden today?”

“I am unsure.” Peace looked up at the swirling sky. “They come and they go as they wish. Is there someone you must speak to?”

“We’re trying to bring a young woman back to herself. I don’t know if you remember my old charge Sinead?”

“Which Sinead? There have been many.”

“The one you met last.”

“Which last?” Peace hovered down to sit on the grass. “It is difficult to tell sometimes which last came first.”

“You see the shadow over there?” Eluard pointed across the glade.

Cole followed his finger, and was surprised to see Sinead standing still at the edge of the forest. Her form was as translucent as Peace, but it was colorless. He shuddered. It felt unnatural.

“I wondered what that was,” Peace said calmly. “It is filled with the most erratic jumble of emotions beyond its veil. Very unpeaceful.”

Cole was confused. “What does that mean?”

“Can you not see the veil separating her into two people?” Eluard was intrigued. “I can’t either – I’m far too physical. I had thought perhaps you may since you managed to retain other aspects of being a spirit.” He pulled Cole over to Sinead. “Anyway, it’s much like the veil that separates the Fade from our world. A spirit can see beyond it to who the Tranquil person is supposed to be.” He snapped his fingers in front of Sinead’s face. “You there, my girl?”

“I can hear you, Eluard.” Sinead’s eyes did not react to the closeness of Eluard’s snapping fingers. “And I hear Cole. I do not hear the other you are speaking to.”

“But you can’t see us?” Cole attempted to touch Sinead, but his hand went through her. “Why is she like this?”

“She’s barely capable of accessing the Fade like this. Right now she’s more like a…a projection of her thoughts. It’s damned difficult to explain. The point is, she can’t see anything here, and the spirits here see her as a shadow unless they look beyond the veil.”

“Then what does _she_ see?”

“It is as if I am looking at the back of my eyelids,” Sinead replied. “It is dark.”

Cole cringed.

“Yes, it’s very spooky, isn’t it?” Eluard was cheerful. “But no worries, we’ll get her all fixed up.”

“You don’t want me to lift her veil, do you, Eluard?” Peace was alarmed. “I couldn’t. She’s so much calmer like this than her memories say she was before.”

Cole raised his brows. “You wouldn’t help her? But she’s not even her like this!”

“When she was her she was hurting,” Peace said placidly. “All that black bringing her grief. Like this she is silent, serene. Is that not preferable to what she was?”

“No.” Cole shook his head. “Never mind. You can’t understand.”

“But there’s someone in Peace’s garden who will,” Eluard said reassuringly. “You know her best. Who should we seek out?”

Cole considered the question carefully. The answer came to him quickly.

“Knowledge,” he said. “Or Study, or Wisdom, or Learning, or –“

“Wisdom is here.” Peace smiled. “She is near the river. Shall I show you?”

“Just a moment, Peace.” Eluard peered at Cole. “Are you absolutely sure Wisdom would be willing to help?”

“Yes,” Cole said confidently. “Sinead wants to know, always seeking, searching for answers.”

Eluard studied him for a moment.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Lead on, Peace.”

They followed Peace out of the glade into the conifer forest. Multicolored flowers bloomed from under a layer of green needles that crunched beneath Cole’s boots. It was only then that he realized he was wearing his typical armor – mail-lined coat, loose trousers, boots and helm. He supposed he must have been worried about facing a battle before he appeared in the glade. He let down his guard, and his clothing shifted to tunic, shirt and trousers.

“Are you sure you’re not a mage? A dreamer?” Eluard said, noticing the shift. “You can clearly shape the Fade as you see fit.”

“It’s not too hard to change myself.” Cole said with a shrug. “But I can’t change what doesn’t want to shift. Mostly things that aren’t me don’t listen to me.”

“Hm.”

They came upon a wide river with water so clear that the smooth stones could be seen at the bottom. The stones were bright blue, and glittered with their own light. On the bank of the river sat a dark green spirit with short black hair, twiddling with something in her translucent hands.

“Wisdom, Eluard is here,” Peace said mildly. “He brings a shadow with him. And Compassion.”

Wisdom lifted from the riverbank, hovering a bit above the ground, not looking up from the trinket in her hand.

“Hello, Eluard,” she said absently. “I’m making a new puzzle. I’ll need you to test it when it’s complete.” She held up a small wooden box with a lever on the side.

“Wisdom, I would be happy to help you with your puzzle. Unfortunately, I’m not here for a simple visit. I’ve brought a project for you.”

He waved to Cole’s left. Cole glanced over, and jumped back in surprise. Sinead was now standing next to him, still and blank-faced and monochrome.

“How did she get here?”

“I told you, she’s like a projection. She’s wherever we need her to be, until she has substance here again.” He nodded at Wisdom. “Do you think you can help her?”

Wisdom closed her hands around her puzzle, making it disappear in a wisp of smoke. Then she hovered around Sinead, analyzing her with a critical eye.

“This shadow is one who has been separated from the Fade, then?”

“Correct.”

“Hm.” Wisdom hovered in front of Sinead. “What she holds beyond the veil that traps her is intriguing. Such an inquisitive mind.”

“She needs to know,” Cole blurted. “Everything interests, intrigues, feeds her fascination with the way the world works and what we tell ourselves about it.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Wisdom said, amused. “You very much want me to help her.”

“Please,” Cole begged. “She can’t stay this way. It isn’t right.”

“I agree.” Wisdom studied Sinead a few moments more. She frowned. “I am tempted, little one. She enjoys seeking knowledge for knowledge’s sake. If I were near her, I would certainly be in her thrall to see what she discovered. However, I see moments when wisdom was tossed away in favor of another emotion, a feeling that runs even deeper within her.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, little one, but it is not my place to lift the veil that sunders her. She deserves one who understands her even better than me.”

Cole sank into himself, dazed. “But…you are who she seeks.” He shook his head to clear it. “Knowledge, or Study, then. Another, like you but not. We need to find them.”

“No. They are just as unlikely to help.” Wisdom backed away from Sinead and gave Eluard a disapproving look. “It isn’t right, Eluard. Why have you not told him?”

“I didn’t realize who he was until I arrived, my dear. And when I did, I hoped I was wrong.”

“Stop talking around me,” Cole said impatiently.

Eluard crossed his arms. “Think, young man. You said Wisdom or Knowledge would be drawn to her, and it seems they are. But those aren’t the only spirits whom Sinead attracted.”

“You hovered around her when you first met her,” Peace said placidly. “Was it just to help?”

“I…yes, the darkness…I wanted to…” Cole stopped. He pointed at himself. “You think…that I was drawn to her?”

“Trying to help again and again, trying to get it right, not stopping until she herself wished it,” Wisdom mused. “You caught a glimpse into her head when you helped her in Haven.”

“She would have killed the red Templar,” Peace said with a shudder. “All that death and blood and fire – but she had to help, had to make up for the trouble she made for the girl who followed her into the fray. She would have killed. She _could_ have killed, could have won the battle with her blood. But you heard her, and you helped her keep from killing, this time.”

“Such an odd intervention,” Wisdom continued. “Others fought furiously and you moved on to help those who could not fight. But this one, who had the skill, who would have survived, you stopped to help.”

“And then the nightmares,” Peace said dreamily. “How many among the people at Skyhold had desperate dreams that drew them from sleep? How many had you at their door when wakened in the night?”

“It wasn’t…I wasn’t able to…” Cole’s head was reeling. “I wanted to help. She needed…”

“She needed help so that she could keep helping,” Wisdom finished.

“I…yes.” He let realization settle on his shoulders. “She…wanted to help, even if it hurt her. I heard memories of many times she made decisions to help, even if she was in danger or the darkness dragged at her or she caused a death. She sounded so… _right_.” He looked at Eluard and Wisdom and Peace in turn, distressed. “Compassion. She calls to Compassion. I’m the one who should help. But I _can’t_ now. I made my choice.” Never had he regretted that choice more than he did at that moment. He threaded his hands through his hair and sat down hard on the needle-strewn ground.

Eluard stroked his chin. “Damn. I was hoping you were a spirit of Knowledge or something similar – she clearly caught your interest before you became…whatever it is you are now. Human-esque. Wisdom would have had her back in a tick tock. No such luck, of course, and Compassion is much trickier to find.”

“But we can find another?” Cole looked up at Eluard, hopeful. “I know I am not the only one.”

“Of course you’re not.” Eluard waved a hand of dismissal. “But spirits of Compassion are rare birds. They don’t tend to last long.”

“Compassion hurts,” Peace said quietly. “So much pain in the world – how can one help everyone? And thus they fall to Despair.”

“Or worse,” Wisdom said darkly. “They warp their cause, stealing memories from their victims, feeding off the pain.”

“Like the Nightmare,” Cole said sadly.

“Just so.”

“Or they apparently walk out of the Fade and decide that being a spirit isn’t enough to help the physical folk,” Eluard said wryly.

Cole dropped his head in his hands. “It wasn’t like that. I forgot everything because I couldn’t help. It hurt too much to remember.”

“There we go, then. Another Compassion spirit who nearly flickered out,” Eluard said. “But don’t despair, young man. It’s not as if Compassion doesn’t exist elsewhere in the Fade. We simply have to go on a long, desperate journey across an ever changing landscape searching for a rare form of spirit with a Tranquil woman in tow.”

“Sarcasm does not suit you, Eluard,” Wisdom said. “Why do you refuse to tell the little one everything?”

“You may be Wisdom, but you’re not Accuracy, my dear,” Eluard retorted. “Sarcasm is how I’ve survived for so long without going mad. And let the lad figure things out for himself. How will he learn, otherwise?”

“There has to be a way to help,” Cole said, voice cracking. “She can’t stay like this.”

He stared at his boots, turning over terrible ideas, then tossing them away. Then he narrowed his eyes – his boots. Boots that were different from those he had arrived with in the Fade, for he had changed them to suit his needs.

He went cold, and lifted his head. “The Fade is what you will it to be,” he said slowly. “I can be what I need to be to help Sinead.”

Eluard grinned. “And he has it.”

“Well done, little one,” Wisdom said kindly.

“I can’t though,” Cole said, standing and pacing. “I’m too me to be what I was. I’m too heavy, too solid. I can’t just decide to be a spirit and then just _be_. Not anymore.”

“You’ll have to forget,” Wisdom said with a nod. “It wouldn’t be for long – you are no longer what you were. Your body will still be waiting for you in the physical world. I imagine it will be much like how dreaming has been described to me – it will be very real and very unreal at the same time.”

“But it is not without danger,” Eluard said, holding up a finger. “And I say this so that you can make your choice with a clear understanding. Plenty of mages have lost themselves in the Fade, never to return to their bodies. You have to be the one to bring yourself back, you know. And if you’ve forgotten who you are, if you think you’re once again Compassion, you could get stuck – and you won’t be a spirit, you’ll be a human-esque being wandering the Fade thinking you’re a spirit. Not exactly a pleasant fate.”

Cole looked down at his hands. Solid, steady hands. He glanced at the silent Sinead.

“Would I…still be able to help? If I get lost?”

Eluard cocked a brow. “I imagine you can find a way.”

“Then I will…try to forget.”

“I will help you,” Peace said serenely. She hovered over to him and placed a hand on his forehead. “I will find the time when you were most at peace.”

Before he had time to reply, he felt himself falling backward through his memory, moments flickering past and fading away – sadness at Sinead’s blankness becoming anger at her stealing his memory becoming the moment they shared on the patio. He fell faster – passing his illness, and the attack of the Tal-Vashoth, and the fear of the depth, and down past the months of helping at Skyhold after Corypheus’s defeat, then the battle where he could not be bound, and fighting the red Templars in snowy mountains and the Hissing Wastes, and the temple where the Elvhen whispers of the past saddened the ones who slept for her.

Faster and faster, past his choice – and suddenly he felt more confused, unsure, everything bright and shining and strange. Past memories of the Nightmare, thief of fear, past the masks wearing masks dancing dangerously around each other, past helping and then making people forget, past seeking the Inquisitor when the Templars went mad with the red song inside them, past running to the Templars so that if he went bad again, he could be killed, past killing the Seeker whose anger and ambition would hurt many.

The pain of Rhys’s discovery of what he was, his own realization that he wasn’t real – or was he? He was a ghost, hidden in the hallways of the White Spire, helping those who wanted to die. He had to help them – he would not be real without helping. And then holding a hand that went limp in the dark, and a sad, scared cry that called to him.

He panicked. He could not forget, not that. Not _that_. “No, I –“

_The forest was calm, quiet, cool breezes brushing around him. He was confused – he had heard crying, had to help the hurting boy, but now he was here. Where was here?_

“Hello,” _he said to Peace, whose hand moved from his head as she smiled._ “Is this your place?”

“It is.”

“Why am I here?”

“To help,” _another said – Wisdom, watching him inquisitively._

“Oh. Yes.”

_He glanced around the forest – there was a man, a mage, sad of face, but he was unable to hear more – his thoughts and feelings were hidden. Was he the one to help? No, this mage was too solid, too strong. And the spirits did not need him. They were older, powerful, sure of who they were._

_Then he noticed the shadow, silent and still. A someone who was separated from herself, a shimmering veil between her being and her mind. She wanted to know, to see, to seek, to aid, to assist where her hands could help. Her thoughts and feelings were a song he was drawn to, wanted to hear more of – but the veil was in the way, keeping her from fully being._

_It was wrong, the way she was. He had to help, but he was not sure how._

“She’s too quiet,” _he said, distressed, hovering close to the shadow._ “What can I do to make her mind loud again?”

“Do what you must to break the veil,” _Wisdom said._

_Break the veil? He would have to enter her, which is what demons did – he did not want to possess, to stay, to squat in her mind. But there was no other way to free her. If he was swift, perhaps…_

_He reached out to the shadow, spread himself and sunk within, merged for merely a moment. He was engulfed in her being, her memories, her moments of happiness and sadness and joy and despair and anger and guilt and stubbornness. It made him gasp – all those emotions at once that they experienced together. The veil shattered into shards of useless power. He pushed away, was himself and only himself once more._

_And she was no longer a shadow. She was bright, shining, a solid being with black cascades of hair that brushed her ankles and wide eyes that stared at him with shock. He was filled with joy – she was whole, her mind singing and strong. But then, something went wrong – a darkness filled her thoughts, a fear enveloped her. She gasped for breath._

_And then she was gone._

“Damn, she’s awake,” _the man said._ “I’m sorry, Cole, I need to tend to her. Don’t get lost.”

_And the man was gone, too._

_He was distraught. What did he do to the woman to make the darkness swallow her?_

“Where did they go? I have to help her.”

 _Peace placed her hand on his cheek._ “Do you? Eluard will keep the girl safe, little one. You needn’t run off. You are welcome to stay in my garden.”

“Peace, how could you,” _Wisdom said disapprovingly._

“Listen to him, Wisdom. He is blissful this way. More as he should be, without the difficulties of humanity.”

“He made his choice.”

“So? He can make another.” _Peace smiled at him._ “Do you wish to stay here, with me?”

_He looked around the garden – it felt soothing to be there, calming. But he could not be calm – he needed to help._

“Please, where did she go? She’s trapped in the dark and I sent her there. I have to find her,” _he pleaded._

“There you are, you see? You can’t convince Compassion to remain in peaceful stasis. He needs to go where he’s needed.” _Wisdom pushed Peace away from him._ “Do not fear, little one, you can find her easily. All you have to do is wake up.”

“Wake…up?”

“Yes. Close your eyes.”

_He did so._

“And open them.”

The memories crashed down on him in a painful rush. He pushed off of the chair and stumbled to his knees.

“Woah, there.” Krem helped him to his feet. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Cole said shakily. “I remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Everything.” He looked around the room – Eluard was gone from his chair, and Dorian was also not there. He pushed away from Krem and staggered toward the door. “The darkness has her. I need to –“

A wave of power washed over him. He broke into a run, crossing through the dining hall and the kitchen at a full sprint and skidding to a halt in front of the storage room where they had left Sinead. The wards on the room were gone, smashed by the power. Sinead was crouched low to the ground, eyes wild, hand bleeding from tooth marks. Dorian was laying against the boxes, groaning and shaking his head while Eluard stood in front of Sinead, holding up his hands.

“You’ve forced them back, my girl,” Eluard said slowly. “But you broke the ward. They’ll be back soon if you don’t let me build it up again.”

“Don’t you dare, you monster!” she screamed. “Not a bit of magic, or I swear I’ll burn us both alive!”

Her head was in chaos, emotions whirling without stability. Rage and fear and grief held her.

“You’re unsteady, irrational,” Eluard soothed. “You’re in emotional turmoil. The demons are attracted to this. Let me help.”

“Help?” She laughed manically. “You don’t help. All you bring is death, you vile old man. Why don’t you die and leave me alone!”

She held out her hand. Cole rushed her, taking her wrist and pushing her bodily to the ground on her back. She struggled with him, kicking out. He held her firm.

“Sinead, you don’t want to hurt,” he said, stroking her cheek. “You don’t want to harm.”

She went still, staring at him while panting. “Cole?” She burst into deep sobs, filling him with her sadness.

Eluard approached them quickly and touched her head. She relaxed, eyes rolling back and closing as she fell into dreams.

“There we are. A little time is all she needs. Peace will keep watch over her while she sleeps.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Take her to her room, would you?”

Cole nodded and gathered her in his arms. As he walked from the storage room, feeling her mind slipping smoothly into serene dreams, a delirious smile grew across his face that he could not keep contained.

She was back.


	24. Connection

She woke with a start, sitting up and breathing hard.

She was in a bedroom, quilt covering her, red light glowing in the corners. She waved a hand, and dozens of spherical lanterns appeared and flew up to the stone ceiling. She threw off the quilt and slid out of bed, bare feet landing on a worn rug before her oversized robe engulfed them.

Her mind was clearer than before, thoughts no longer running free and fast, unable to be contained. But her feelings were overwhelming – every emotion was magnified, powerful, all-consuming. Right now, it was disbelief, doubt, skepticism. She was free, but that was impossible, because she was sure that she would never be free again. She paced the room in circles, patting herself down, unable to believe that she could care again about minor aches and pains or the state of her hair or the cool air touching her hand.

Then she stopped and hugged herself, overflowing with joy. She was free. She was free and she could feel and it was not a dream or a vision or a hallucination. She laughed and laughed, bending at the waist, tears streaming down her cheeks, until she ran out of breath. She jumped up and down a few times, enjoying her enjoyment of the feel of her body's movement, then waved a hand and made more lanterns appear in as many colors as she could think of – green and blue and red and purple and chartreuse and fuchsia and ochre and turquoise and golden and honey and pearl – until they filled the ceiling and the room was bright with light and color. She danced around the room, kicking up the hem of her robe.

"Sinead?"

She spun around. Cole stood at the door, leaning a little on the handle. His somber face was framed by the blond shag his hair had become over the previous month. He looked disheveled, as if startled from sleep.

"I woke you," she said. "I was too loud."

"No." He tentatively stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I couldn't sleep. I've tried."

"Is it late?"

"Very early. Everyone else is still asleep."

As he spoke, her joy tipped over into a great abundance of love. Oh, how she loved this strange young man, his foibles and fears and wants and interests and the way he studied things so closely and his need to help. It was a sweet ache, a beautiful hurt.

He touched his chest and gasped. "You're feelings are so f-full," he stuttered. "They're almost too much."

"Isn't it wonderful?" She was giddy with glee. Then she remembered their last fight, the reason she was not with him the day she was taken, and dipped, fell head first into pain, memory, guilt. Tears sprung to her eyes, this time sad, remorseful tears. "Oh, Cole, I am so sorry. I stole the memory from you. I stole a piece of you away to make myself feel better, to help you be someone I wanted you to be, and it was wrong. I was –" She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to continue, disgust in herself making it impossible to speak.

Cole took a step toward her holding up his hands. "It was wrong," he said softly. "It was. But I understand why you did it – why you didn't want me to hurt again after being sick."

"That doesn't make it better," she choked.

"No," he soothed. "But your regret does."

"Regret. That is my whole life. My whole existence." Anger filled her now, burning rage. She paced the floor, tangling her hand in her curls, unable to stop thinking. "One poor decision after another, one death after another, one reason to die after another, until I became a useless, emotionless abomination." She kicked the wardrobe, not caring at the sting in her foot afterward.

Cole watched her, hands clenched together. He seemed unsure of what to say. "Do you…regret taking Dorian's place? Becoming Tranquil instead of him?"

"Maker's breath, no." She felt sick now, shuddering at the memory of Tranquility. "There was so much pain. It ripped me up, tore me apart. And then…it was like being trapped inside a steel box, screaming at the top of my lungs without anyone to hear, while at the same time feeling nothing.  _Nothing_ , no pain, no fear, no joy, no hope. I was going mad and too sane at the same time." She let out a small, manic laugh. "I would never let another experience that in my place. Never, never. I thought it would be forever, locked inside myself forever…"

"But now you're free. It's over, forever," he said gently. Then he clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing. "I will never let that happen to you again. I promise. Never again."

She stood still, scrutinizing him. His eyes – those gray eyes were the same in this him as the him whom she saw in the Fade, the spirit who reached into her and released her – deep and inquisitive, solid and staring and studying. Such a beautiful spirit, kind eyes, wide smile, bright cyan with white hair floating around his head like a halo. She thought of the instant when they had merged – it was like a hand reaching out in the darkness, pulling her from the brink, and the need, the unending need to make things right for as many as possible became one with her own thoughts and emotions. Again she tipped to love, her sickness blotted out by the ache.

"It was who I used to be," Cole said, placing a hand on his chest. "You…think I was beautiful?"

"You  _are_  beautiful. Everything about you is –" she shook her head, fear filling her. "I heard Eluard's warning. You could have been lost doing what you did, forgetting to free me." She began to shake. "How could you risk everything you've become for me?"

"Not for you," he said, the words strained. He strode over to her, taking her head between his hands. "No, I did do it for you. But also, for me. For  _me_. I couldn't come back and be me knowing you would still be like… _that_ , like…a doll with your face, moving and speaking and doing and thinking and none of you within. I had to try. I  _had_  to."

He stared at her a moment, eyes softening, fingers slowly brushing over her curls. Then, he smiled, a slow, wide smile that made his eyes crackle with delight.

"It is you," he said, lightly twisting his fingers around her hair. "It's loud, and confused, and unsteady, but it's you. I –"

He stopped, mouth open, as if he could think of nothing more to say – as if the words were not enough. Her heart pounded, again the sweet ache filling her chest, making it impossible to move. Then, moving too fast for her to react, he kissed her, a hard, deep kiss. She responded immediately, tasting him, tinny and sweet, moving her lips with his as he pressed close to her, enveloping her in his arms. She curled her arm around him, pressed her hand against his back, needing to feel him against her.

"I missed you. Missed you so much," he whispered when he stopped for brief moments to catch his breath. "I didn't know I could miss anything like that. Not anything."

He pulled away from time to time, chasing the deep droughts with delicate brushes with his lips before falling back into heady kisses, as if unable to stop. And she did not want him to stop – the want grew within her, rising from the ache, becoming heat, flame,  _need_. The kisses quickened, as did both their hearts – she could feel his pounding against her chest. The need became unbearable, and her hand clutched the fabric of his robe as she desperately ached for more. Behind the ache, the panic grew, threatening to take her, but she did not care – she wanted more than anything to feel everything.

He pulled away suddenly, breathing hard. "Sinead." He moved his head away as she tried to draw him into another kiss. "Sinead. I can feel it. The panic."

"So?" She panted, tried to kiss him again, and again he avoided her lips.

"I can't." He was trembling slightly, his whole body fighting off his own want. "I can't hurt you again. Never again."

He was so earnest. Sinead laughed breathily, amusement and appreciation and affection blending with the need and the love and the edges of panic.

"I told you before, that's impossible," she said. "We're human. We hurt. That's what we do. And sometimes, you'll hurt me. And I'll hurt you. I'll not be afraid of my fear." She pressed her hand against his cheek, and he moved his head against it, took it in his own hand.

"I don't want you to fear me," he murmured. "Not like…not because of…"

"The panic and the darkness are a part of me." She slipped her hand from his. "They hurt, but I would feel every agony they cause than be free of them again. And I'll not let them keep me from living the life I want to live."

She looked up at him, at his unsure eyes, at his flush cheeks and reddened lips. And she wanted.

Sinead made a decision.

She pushed away from him, took a step back and closed her eyes. Then, quivering a little, she untied the satin belt around her waist and pulled her arm into the robe. She worked the robe awkwardly over her head, and let it slip off her dead arm to the floor.

The panic was trying to rise, but she took many deep breaths.  _I want to do this_ , she thought.  _This is me. No one commands me, no one tells me what I must do, I am in control. I want this._

She silenced the panic, and all that was left was the feel of the cool earthen air on her skin, making her shiver, and the want. She took one last breath, and opened her eyes. Cole was staring at her, wide eyed, studying every inch of her body, his flush now a full blush. He swallowed, then swallowed again.

"I feel dizzy," he said faintly.

She covered a nervous smile with her hand. "This is me," she said, voice muffled. "This is all of me."

He nodded, unable to look away. Then, a look crossed his features, like a spark had flared in his mind, a small epiphany.

Sinead took another breath as he quickly untied his own belt. "Oh, I…" He pulled his robe over his head and tossed it away. Her mouth dropped as he gave her a small, shy smile.

She started to shake as she studied his form. She had never seen a naked man, even in all her years as a healer – she managed to keep their modesty through her magic, needing only to examine wounds with mana and blood. She felt light-headed, felt warm all over.

"It's…a little different than an illustration," she said timidly.

He did not speak, taking a step toward her. Her shaking increased as he reached for her. But he did not grab for her as she feared – instead, he took her hand and laid it flat against his chest, then dropped his arms to his sides.

"What do  _you_  want, Sinead?"

Her shaking ceased. He gazed at her with gentle longing. Her want burned bright again. Slowly, tentatively, she moved her hand over his chest, to the thin black rope that circled his neck. The small wooden cylinder she had seen him work on for weeks was looped through the rope, an unfinished mess of carved knots. She lifted the rope with a finger.

"What's this?"

"A memory of you. From Tal-Ashkaari."

She moved the rope between her thumb and forefinger, suddenly recognizing the color – her hair. Her heart hurt for a moment, then she let the necklace go.

She moved her hand down to his torso, brushing her fingers over white scars that marred his skin, feeling the musculature that moved with each of his breaths. She moved her hand lower, past his navel, then lower still. His breath caught and she hesitated, not quite brave enough yet to complete the journey downward.

She moved her hand back up, over his chest and his left shoulder, stepping around him, slipping the hand down his back. She traced more scars with her thumb. She kissed one near his shoulder softly, leaned down and kissed another old, deep cut on his right side. She continued moving her hand, over his right shoulder, down and up his right arm, back to his chest. She kissed his collarbone, kissed the center of his chest, stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

His eyes were lidded, his breathing heavy. He was the one shaking now, his hands fists against his thighs. She brushed her lips over his.

"I want  _you_ ," she whispered.

He embraced her, kissing her frenziedly, she barely able to keep up, carrying her to the bed. And then they were hands and mouths and kisses and caresses and soft whispered gasps. And when she was unsure, he led her, and when the panic threatened, he slowed, and it was she who led.

It was like they were swimming against a great current, desperately trying to make it to shore. And then, the current shifted, and the waves crested, slamming down and submerging them before carrying them to shallow waters.

After, she lay against his shoulder, arm draped over his chest, her whole body tingling and her eyes heavy. Cole stroked her hair slowly, looking down on her.

"I didn't know it was like  _that_ ," she said sleepily. "Did you?"

"Yes." He smiled sheepishly. "But it's…different when you experience it yourself."

"I told you so."

"It is much,  _much_  better than a taste of candy apple, though." He sounded a bit awed. "I don't know how many candy apples worth."

"Dozens," she replied, her words beginning to slur. "Hundreds. Every apple at every fair."

He laughed softly, hugging her close. "I love you, Sinead."

"Good." She sighed and snuggled against him. "Because I'm very much in love with you."

She closed her eyes and let herself be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his beating heart.

* * *

He was in Peace's glade again, lying on the golden grass, hands behind his head, staring at the swirling sky. He could not keep from smiling – he felt like his whole self was a smile, a testament to gladness.

He felt Peace enter the glade, felt her sit next to him. He sat up, his smile dropping a little.

"You tried to keep me here," he admonished.

"Yes." She did not sound apologetic. "Are you upset?"

"No." He crossed his legs. "I understand that you can't understand."

"Is it truly better? Being physical?" She sounded skeptical. "There's so much pain and hurt involved. Surely it's not better?"

"No. It's…different." He thought a moment, trying to determine the best words to say. "Emotions mean more, memory means more, learning means more. You become capable of terrible things, and capable of wonderful things, and they fight against each other, and…" He caught Peace's confused look. "It's…hard to explain."

"It sounds interesting," she said doubtfully. "But I think I prefer my garden."

"I know."

"I do think you are very brave. To be in that world at this time."

He shook his head. "It isn't brave. It's just a choice."

"But you feel it, don't you?" She took a breath and looked up at the sky. "The change is coming."

He hesitated a moment. "Yes."

"The wolf seeks solutions to struggles he never should have caused."

"Yes." He felt his hackles raise, feeling Peace's disapproval. "But he means well. He wants to help."

"He'll harm many to help."

"I know. He doesn't know another way. He needs help to help, but won't accept it. It's…complicated."

"Is it? It feels so simple." Peace laughed. "The change is coming, little one. What will you do when it does?"

"I will help."

She gave him a curious look. "Help who?"

"Anyone who hurts," he said firmly. "Even the wolf." He looked down at his hands. Solid, steady hands. "Until then, I will be me, the me I am now, as best as I can."

Peace smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck, little one. You are welcome to find me again if ever you change your mind."

The garden faded as he surfaced from sleep. Sinead was no longer in bed – he could hear her humming from the bathing room. He blinked and stretched his prickling arm, long since fallen asleep under the weight of Sinead's head. Then he slipped from the bed and padded into the bathing room.

Sinead's back was to him – she was looking through the jars on the side of the large, raised stone bathtub, opening them and sniffing their contents. He watched her a moment, reveling in her thoughts – her contentment and happiness and inquisitiveness and even the darkness that lurked beyond. She was calmer than before – more steady, more sure of her emotions. They were still strong, but not overpowering, not changing at a whim.

"You're taking a bath?"

She jumped and dropped the lid of one of the jars. It clattered on the tile floor as she turned around, blushing and moving to cover herself with her arm. She then dropped her arm, her blush growing deeper.

"Yes," she said shyly, tucking her tangled curls behind her ear. "I've read many books that involve, ah, sexual interaction, but none have ever described the aftermath – specifically, how sticky it is."

He leaned over and picked up the lid, placing it on its jar. "Writers don't write about the cleaning and the finding of clothes and the awkward conversations afterward?"

"Not really. Maybe the conversations. I suppose it's not considered narratively important."

She was looking everywhere but at him, holding her dead arm and stepping from foot to foot. He watched her thoughtfully. She was nervous, delighted, a little unsure. Everything was  _different_  – or was it just more?

"Is there any deer soap?"

That diverted her thoughts. She finally looked at him, confused.

"…Deer soap?"

"They had it at the baths in Nevarra. You liked it."

"Did I?" Now she was thoroughly befuddled. She laughed " _Deer_  soap? No, these soaps just smell spicy."

She took the lid off one of the jars and held it up to his nose. He blinked and sneezed.

"It smells like a lab at the White Spire."

"Doesn't it, though?" she said, pleased. "It reminds me of the classrooms at the Gallows. Some of the few happy memories I have of that dreadful place is of the classrooms." Her eyes sparkled. "Do you want to see what happens if we add all the soaps to the water?"

He grinned. "Yes."

They climbed into the tub, plugged the drain and turned the hot and cold levers, bringing forth a steaming stream of water from the faucet.

"Dwarven plumbing is so fascinating." She handed him a jar, took one for herself and poured soap into the stream with him, then repeated the actions as she spoke. "The water comes from the same source, of course, typically a cistern. But the hot water pipes are plumbed close to lava streams – the engineering required to keep the pipes close enough to the streams without melting them is…what?" She caught him giving her an elated, amused smile. "Was I rambling?"

"Yes."

"Sorry about that." She flushed again. "I'm sure you don't want me going on about dwarven plumbing."

"I want you going on about anything you like," he said as he poured yet more soap into the tub, still smiling. "I like it when you ramble. It sounds like you."

She was pleased by this statement. She poured the last of the soap into the tub, humming a little tune.

The bathing room now smelled of many strong spices blending together in a not unpleasant mix, like a Rivaini kitchen. But the soaps began to build stiff suds in the water that climbed up their limbs and crested over the edge of the tub.

Sinead laughed and kicked at the suds, then dropped to sitting, letting the suds climb up around her head. Cole dropped down as well, burrowing through the suds with his arms until he found her. The water was at his waist, and still the suds climbed. He quickly turned off the water.

"This may make a mess," she said, batting away bubbles. "I hope Eluard won't mind."

White foam coated Sinead's head, dripping from the ends of her hair. An idea sprung to Cole's mind. He moved over to her, forming and shaping the foam until it covered her head and dropped past her shoulders.

"There we go," he said brightly. "Now you have hair again."

"Oh, funny," she said, smoothing her hand over the suds. She rolled her eyes. "Hair grows back you know. You needn't venerate it so."

Cole winced and fingered his necklace. "It's…not about the hair," he said carefully.

Her eyes went wide, then went sad. She took his hand. "I know."

There was a small pause. Then she took up some foam and spread it over his cheeks.

"If you're giving me hair then you're getting a beard." She shaped the foam until he had a mighty growth growing from his chin. She giggled. "There we are. You're ready to become the next Grand Enchanter now."

He cocked his head. "Do you want me to grow a beard?"

She laughed and shrugged. "It's your face. You can grow whatever you wish on it."

"You like beards."

"I like faces. Particularly your face."

"You like Varric's beard."

"Varric doesn't have a  _beard_ ," she said with mock offense. "He has tasteful stubble."

"And you liked Cullen's beard when he first came to the Gallows."

Now she blushed. "The Commander had more of a young man's goatee than a beard, really. And he shaved it off within a month."

"And there was the young lord in Val Royeaux who asked you to dance at the –"

"Okay, let's stop talking about beards," she said hastily, wiping his face clean and revealing a mischievous grin. She tsked and pushed his shoulder. "Do you delight in making me feel silly?"

"Yes."

She tossed a lump of suds at him, which he returned, and soon they were laughing and splashing at each other.

"Wait, hold on. Something's under my foot." Sinead made an odd face, dipped her hand into the water and pulled out a length of knotted twine. She held it up, then blinked and held it out to him. "Isn't this the bracelet Krem made you? Oh, that's too bad – the ties are all frayed away. Perhaps he can make you another."

Cole stared at the bracelet for a moment. Then he broke out into a heady, delirious laughter, holding his forehead and leaning against the wall of the tub. He gasped for breath a few times, but the laughter kept coming. Sinead twirled the bracelet between her fingers, bemused.

"What's so funny about a broken bracelet?"

Cole snatched the bracelet from her hand and tossed it behind him, then kissed her, wiping foam from her cheeks and shoulders and neck as he moved down her body. Soon they were a tangle of limbs moving together.

Everything was different. Everything was the same, but more. Everything was as it should be.


	25. The Tale of Antonius

Sinead peeked into the dining hall – Krem, Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari were there, chatting over bowls of hot cereal and dried fruit. Dorian caught sight of her first.

"Well, you're looking less murderous this morning," he said cheerfully, raising a cup toward her. "You did a number on my back yesterday. Your old master had a time patching me up."

"I'm sorry. I…wasn't really thinking clearly."

She shuffled carefully into the hall to keep from tripping on her oversized robe. Cole bounded around her, attacking the pot of cereal steaming on the table. He pushed up his sleeves, picked up two bowls and ladled portions for both him and her.

"I'm hungry, aren't you? Do you want fruit?" he asked brightly. "I think there's dates. You like dates."

Dorian glanced at Cole's hair, which was clearly still wet, then at her own head, which was equally wet, then cocked a brow at her. Krem stopped shoveling in, his full spoon hovering in front of his mouth. He was looking at Cole's bare wrists and had a queer smile on his face.

"Yes," Sinead said, ignoring Dorian's look and trying very hard not to blush. "I would like fruit, thank you. Because dates are brilliant."

Cole sprinkled fruit into her cereal liberally and beamed at her as he offered up the bowl. She took it with as much dignity as she could muster, and sat next to Tal-Ashkaari, who had noticed nothing strange or noteworthy about her and Cole's entrance.

"Good morning." Tal-Ashkaari was smiling rather charmingly. "If it is morning. I cannot tell in this eternal twilight."

"I've been sleeping so long that day may be night for me now." Sinead smiled back as she stirred her cereal.

"Is that what Tranquility is like? Sleeping?" Tal-Ashkaari's smile dropped and her words began to falter. "Not that I am asking as a means of studious inquiry, I simply wondered if the comment was conversational or –"

Sinead laughed until she started to wheeze. The others, save Cole who was attacking his breakfast with great vigor, were taken aback.

"Sorry," she said, wiping mirthful tears from her eyes. "I feel steady, but my emotional responses are still a bit stronger than normal. Hopefully that won't last for much longer. It makes me feel loopy." She cleared her throat. "I understand what you meant, no worries, please. And I'll be happy to give you a full report of what it's like to be Tranquil from the perspective of one who no longer is. After a bit of time. It was a dreadful experience, and I want some distance between it and me, please."

"Of course, I would never…no, that is an untruth, under different circumstances I would ask for an interview immediately. But I do not wish to distress you." Tal-Ashkaari's smile returned. "You seem much yourself again. I cannot express how this pleases me."

"Really is good to have you back." Krem gave her a small salute. "It's nice to see your face move, for one thing."

"Are all of your emotions are back, then?" Dorian was still eyeing her. She knew he was about to be terrible. "All the important ones, anyway? Happiness, sadness, anger, love, desire, yearning –"

"Yes, all of them." She said firmly, with a toothy warning smile. "You needn't list them all."

"Just making sure," he replied with a grin.

Eluard came into the hall from the kitchen, carrying a sweating pitcher.

"Here we are, fresh milk from the goats," he said jovially. "Can't have cereal without it." He caught sight of Sinead and smiled widely. "Good morning, my girl! You look well-rested. Certainly more at ease than yesterday." He chuckled.

Sinead went numb, and then a heady anger filled her. She took a few deep breaths and a few bites of cereal, trying to clear her sudden fury. "I don't want to kill you anymore, if that's what you mean," she said coolly.

Cole set down his spoon. "You can't pretend that she's not angry with you. It just makes her angrier."

Eluard let his smile fall. "Of course. I simply wanted you to ease into the day, Sinead. I did not mean to ignore your anger. I certainly have earned it."

"Yes, you have." She did not look at him, hand tightening its grip on her spoon. "You killed my mother, abandoned me with a group of Dalish elves who were less than enthused by my presence, and gave me little choice to do much else but sail across the sea to one of the worst Circle Towers in existence. And then you let me rot in there."

The others became silent, watching her and Eluard. She continued eating, refusing to meet anyone's eye.

"You were safe there," Eluard said finally. "Safer than I could make you at the time."

"So you said in those foolish little puzzle notes you left me," she sneered. "But I was  _not_. Years of listening to people call magic a sin and a curse, forced to hide my skills out of fear, a cowardice that cost lives that I could have saved. Years of watching as the Templars gutted our lessons, our sources of knowledge, our damned library. Watching people be made Tranquil for the tiniest infractions. It was difficult then, but now that I know…Maker's breath, the torture those poor souls must be under, all for wanting a bit of time to the self, a bit more time with their lessons, a lover.

"Then the Annulment – Maker, do you have any idea, any clue of what it's like to fear for your life in the place you're made to call home? To see the bloodlust on the faces of those who call themselves your protectors as they run at  _children_? The lengths people went to for survival?" She finally looked at Eluard, eyes burning into him. "Do you have any idea what I had to do to survive?" She stood and threw the spoon across the dining hall. It hit the second table, clattering across the surface. Then she began to march out of the room.

Cole leapt up and blocked her. "You have to talk to him," he said soothingly. "It won't be better until you do."

"I can talk to him when I don't want to throttle him," she snapped.

"You'll want to hurt him until you talk to him," he replied. "The hurt won't heal until you talk."

His face was solemn, his gray eyes kind. She relaxed, nodded, and sat back down, her anger still simmering but no longer strangling her.

Everyone was silent.

"…If you were still so angry with me, why did you seek me out?" Eluard said finally. "Your and the Inquisition's inquiries were what tipped Titus – he likely planted a spy soon after they contacted me, and lo and behold, found you in Skyhold. You were  _safe_  – you could have forgotten me, let your memories of me die. Frankly, I would have preferred it than see you run across the world to escape my old enemy."

"A friend…a  _former_  friend gave me a clue about where you were holed up," she said sullenly. "I thought to ignore it – he had to have had some motive for telling me. A motive that I don't trust. But after considering it, I realized that I had to see you again, if only to ask, why? Why, Eluard? Why did you leave me? And if I was safer away from you, why did you visit my mother and me? Maker, why did you teach me blood magic when you  _knew_  it was considered volatile out in the world?"

"And how did you watch me for so many years?" Her voice rose. "You gave details about my life in that initial message that you should have never known!"

She waved her hand around the dining room. "And what in Andraste's flames is this place!? A dwarven-built hideaway in the middle of the Hundred Pillars, fully stocked? It's mad! And what of Titus – who  _is_  he? Why does he want me?" She slammed her fist on the table. "I am no longer a child – stop leaving me in the dark!"

Eluard examined her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he sat down across from her and folded his hands.

"I taught you blood magic because I knew, even when you were young, that you had the mental and moral capacity to use it ethically and well. Which you have proven to me. You are capable of pushing back demons while they still occupy the Fade – that is some clever manipulation of the veil, my girl. And I heard tale while you slept of the way you healed this young man," he nodded at Cole, "not to mention other healings you accomplished. You are a fine mage, and should not be limited to mana alone.

"As for how I tracked you…"

He pulled a small vial from his pocket and set it on the table. It contained two wooden cubes. Sinead picked the vial up and studied the cubes.

"…Is this ironbark?"

"It is."

She glanced at Eluard and looked back at the cubes. "These are from my hairpins!"

"They are." He smiled. "I took a small sample of each when your mother became involved with Marcus. Per her agreement, of course. I've been skrying with them since you were just a babe. And I was most diligent during times when you were clearly experiencing strife. The last few weeks I've been a bit crazed – I could see nothing, and the emotional resonance I caught was desperately sad. Now I understand why."

"They're still in my pack," Cole said. "I didn't let her give them away."

"For that I am grateful."

"You spied on me through –" Sinead blushed deeply. "How much did you – how – when –"

"I assure you, I was very careful," Eluard said quickly. "I never looked in when there were clearly more… _personal_  moments that –"

"Stop." She shook her head and held up her hand. "I don't want to hear any more. Maker, just stop."

He cleared his throat. "Well. Finally, as to why I left you, that is because of Titus. And as to who Titus is, that is a very long story." He smiled. "But we have the time, if you wish to hear it."

"Um, should we give the two of you some space?" Krem rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't want to crowd you."

Eluard held up a finger. "I'd rather you stay. The four of you were dragged halfway across the world for Sinead's sake. You deserve an explanation as well."

She lifted her chin. "I'm listening, old man."

"Ah. 'Old man.'" He chuckled. "Let's start with that. The first thing you have to understand is that I am not as old as I appear. Indeed, I am far, far older."

"And how old is that exactly?" Dorian asked curiously.

Eluard thought for a moment. "Five hundred and sixty-two – no, sixty-three years."

Sinead was stunned. "But…how could – no, it's…I…"

Everyone else reacted with similar bafflement, save for Cole, who said, "Oh.  _That's_  why you feel so old. I've only known a few who felt so old."

"Well. That explains how I've never heard of you among the elite, if you're a dreamer," Dorian said. "Records of you must be molding somewhere in Minrathous by now, if they even still exist."

"You just find out that this guy's half a millennium old, and that's your response?" Krem sputtered.

"I'd be more surprised if we didn't just kill off an ancient Tevinter darkspawn monster less than a year ago."

"Ah, well. Right, yeah."

"But he is no monster," Tal-Ashkaari said skeptically. "How can you be so old yet so unblemished?"

"And not part of the Elvhen, either," Dorian mused. He settled into his seat. "Now this is a story I'm interested in hearing."

"No, I am not Elvhen. Now, whether or not I'm a monster, well…" Eluard shrugged. "I can't claim not to be. But let's start at the beginning…

* * *

I was born Antonius Vetus in 3:79 Towers, to a couple of Laetans. My father was a clerk, my mother a mage from a merchant family who, until she came into her magic, had no mages. Thankfully, my parents loved each other – I imagine you've heard stories of how Tevinters mold mages from good breeding. But my parents were social equals, and neither had a name to sell, which gave them a bit of freedom when it came to choosing a spouse.

I had a very happy childhood. My parents doted on me. One could possibly make the argument that I was spoiled, if I gave details, so I keep those details to myself. Let's just say that I never wanted for anything, and I was convinced by age ten that I had hung Luna next to Satina, for my parents claimed it was so.

Now, given that they were both mages, no one was surprised when I turned out to be gifted in magic. What was a surprise was my ability to Dream. Dreamers weren't as rare back then as they are now, but they were still few and far between, especially amongst the lower classes. My parents were ecstatic – my talent was our family's chance to rise in the social hierarchy.

Powerful magisters from across the Imperium sent letters to them requesting me as an apprentice. Rather than gain the ire of any of them for favoring another, my parents sent me to the most prestigious Circle Tower in Tevinter to train amongst the cream of society. Before I left, my father pulled me aside and said, "Son, you will be a great asset to the Imperium. Work hard and you could change the world if you so willed."

I rather wish he had not said those kind things, for they did nothing but swell my already engorged head. I went to school firmly believing that diligence in my studies and my natural talent would reveal all secrets of magic to me. Oh, I did not want something as worldly as becoming Archon – though to become a Magister was, of course, a necessary goal for someone of my talents. No, what I wanted was to change the world – to help people, particularly Tevinters, bend it to their will if they so chose. Did not the Imperium recently break from the southern Chantry and revise the Chant to better fit actual events? If the Maker himself could allow such a thing, surely there was nothing that would be hidden to me of the arcane.

I did well in school, made friends, became proficient in dreaming and avoiding demons. Then I was apprenticed to a Magister named Rufius Dento who set me down the path that led me to where I am today. Rufius was a brilliant man – a progressive long before there was such a movement in Tevinter. He experimented with magic techniques, both with mana and blood, and he was adamant that if one had slaves, one must treat them as you would family.

Oh, yes, I see the looks on your faces – he was progressive, yet could not fathom giving his slaves freedom and paying them wages. We are all trapped within the confines of the rules of our society that we have grown to consider "normal." And so it was with Rufius. His slaves were treated well, fed and clothed and educated, but they were still slaves.

Of course, at that time I considered this to be most magnanimous. Not that my own family's few slaves were treated poorly, but they were certainly lesser and my parents would have balked at teaching any of them to read or write. Rufius wanted all of his slaves to have a basic education – he considered it a right of every man and woman. And if any showed talent, he had them working with him in his labs.

This is how I met Titus, a young slave about my age who, while not a mage, was incredibly clever. He took meticulous notes of every experiment, and had a vast knowledge of magical theory. I was made to work under him at first, which I resented before I grew to understand how intelligent Titus was. He could make connections between disparate experiments that I would never have considered. He had fantastic ideas for tweaking techniques that would lessen the amount of mana used for each spell that are common practice among Tevinters today. I'm sure the heads of the Magisterium would be more than a bit miffed if it was ever revealed that a magicless slave was behind some common magic theories.

When I dropped my pretension and he his guard, Titus and I became fast friends. We would spend hours in the labs together, working on experiments or considering theories. And we would talk of anything that came to mind – politics, philosophy, girls – especially girls. Ages may pass, fashions may change, and civilizations may rise and fall, but there will always be young men talking about girls. Yes, yes, or boys, Cole. Whatever catches the eye and the breath, I mean.

Aside from our discussions on the fairer sex, our next favorite topic was what a dreamer should do with his power. Of course, coupled with blood magic it was not difficult to seek out the dreams of others and influence them on a subconscious level. We argued the ethics of this – I was very much against it. It was a power that had been abused in the past. Had not the creators of the Blight been seduced by the dreams of the Old Gods? Titus was for it, if used ethically. He believed that the power to change the minds of the cruelest leaders was one that should be used often and diligently.

Where we did not disagree was the need to understand spirits and demons beyond the Chantry line of beings jealous of the physical world. The Fade needed study, and more than just the mapping expeditions of the more adventurous academics in the Circle. So, with his urging, I began to seek out spirits, to talk to them, interview them, and bring back my findings for Titus to record as quickly as possible before they faded from my memory.

What we discovered is likely old news to the lot of you, given that you have a former spirit in your midst – they thought differently from us, considered time differently, considered morality and physicality differently, but they were still, unequivocally, people with free will. They may embody a single emotion, but other emotions penetrate, shaping their being, giving them purpose.

I began to befriend these spirits when I slept – it seemed foolish to not offer friendship to beings who had been so open to my curiosity. What most fascinated me about them was their seeming timelessness. They have a tendency to forget things to keep themselves pure, aside from Wisdom or Study or Knowledge, for whom forgetting is anathema to their being. But what they do remember is events spanning the timeline. They hear echoes of the future as much as the reverberations from the past. They exist in a linear time, while being able to call upon their future selves for answers. And the ones that don't seek the physical world tend to last for eons. They are essentially immortals who walk among us, separated by a thin barrier.

Titus and I talked at length about the implications of this immortality – why was the physical world denied continuous being? All knew of the stories the elves told themselves about the fall of Arlathan and the loss of Elvhen immortality through the introduction of humans to Thedas. True or not, there were hints that elves were, indeed, immortal at one time. How did they lose such a gift? Was mortality truly something that was contagious, like a disease? If so, how did spirits avoid catching it when exposed to humans? Was there something in the structure of the Fade or of spirits that allowed for immortality? Could it be tapped for a mortal's benefit?

Of course, we did not answer those questions at that time – we were young, speculative, excited, but not yet masters. Life got in the way of our pursuits. Eventually my apprenticeship ended, I was called away to Minrathous to take up a new seat among the Magisters, and life moved on. My parents arranged a marriage with a nice girl from a low-end Altus family, boosting all of us into a brand new social class that came with societal games we all had to learn. I was busy for many years, working in the government, building a family, pursuing smaller research goals.

It was a happy, if somewhat dull life, a life I could have been content with had not two events occurred.

First, my youngest son, a bright, charming lad, died of the wasting sickness. My poor Quintia, my wife, was inconsolable. She took her life within a year. It tore my family apart – my wife was the foundation of my family, you see. I was always so busy with my work, too busy to really know my elder sons and daughter. They sought solace elsewhere than at my breast, and I was left alone in my grief.

I became obsessed with the idea of immortality – if not for our feeble mortal forms, my son would still be alive, and my wife would have never fallen by her own hand. I had heard whispers of a secret organization that studied ancient secrets and was attempting to break the chains of death that hang around all our necks. For months I sought them out – The Crown of Razikale. I pulled every connection I could, poked around at every smoky salon, until finally I received an introduction to this most elusive club.

And what did I find? A group of noble nitwits who chanted old prayers to false gods to justify their egregious use of blood magic and sacrifice for social or political or personal gain. All headed by Eluvio Literan – the name of the man who formed the organization, now used as a title by the current leader. Their little joke. I was disgusted, frustrated, in despair. I withdrew from the group and secluded myself to my manor for nearly a year. I determined that if I could not beat death, then I would drink until my liver rotted away and I was made to experience death for myself.

I was nearing the end of that year when the second great event of my life occurred. Rufius died a childless bachelor, and, surprisingly, left me his holdings in his will. He claimed that my efforts as a researcher, both under him and on my own, had convinced him that I was a more natural successor for his labs than his distant second cousins. I inherited everything – his wealth, his land, his manor and labs, and his slaves.

The shock of this inheritance was enough to drag me out of my house. I had to hire lawyers, had to assess the assets, and so on and so forth. Further, I had to see to the slaves – I had taken Rufius's lessons to heart, you see. If I simply hired someone to take stock of them, they would be treated like cattle. So I left Minrathous and traveled to the estate myself.

It was much as I remembered in my youth, though the labs had grown precipitously. And who should I find running the entire estate, but my old friend, Titus. He had grown up as well, and had his own tragedies – his wife had died of the same wasting sickness as my son. His children, however, were quite well, and he doted on them. They were also well positioned within the household – no cooks or maids were these children to be. A son and a daughter worked the labs with him, and another son was head of the stables.

Titus and I fell back into our easy friendship. He was undaunted by my new title of "master," which I refused to be called by him. We wiled away hours in the study over brandy, talking of all manner of things – less about girls, more about philosophy. And, when we were deep into the bottle, we hit upon our old conundrum – surely we mortals were capable of achieving immortality. The Elvhen claimed to do it, the spirits did it, why could we not? Why should any of us suffer the loss of a loved one again?

Those sparks of ideas lit a flame in each of us, fed by our mutual grief and curiosity. I woke the next morning hungover, but more alive than I had been in months. I sent the lawyers to my own manor, and ordered them to sell it off – Rufius's state would be my new home.

Titus and I went to work immediately. We researched everything we could about spirits and the Fade, both through the literature that existed and through my own discussions with the spirits. We pieced together the disjoined, poetic rambling of every spirit I interviewed and came to a conclusion: the Fade fed the spirits, sustained them, and our mortality was directly caused by the physical being separated from the Fade by the veil. There would be no unblighted immortality unless we could somehow link our own life-forces to the Fade as the spirits do.

This was, as you can imagine, a conundrum. Everyone is linked to the Fade, save for dwarves and the Tranquil, but the connection is like a single thread of a spider's webbing compared to the rigging that is a spirit's connection. We began experimenting with small animals, nugs and rabbits, attempting to add more threads through spells alone, then with lyrium ingested by them, and finally with blood magic. Reluctantly I moved on to sacrifice, again with small animals, but even that did nothing. The veil was far too strong – any threads we added broke almost immediately.

I summoned spirits, requesting their time so that I could examine their link, and it was most astonishing what we discovered. The veil seemed to ripple for them, not quite ripping or opening but releasing power to them, allowing them to be in the physical world while drawing from the Fade. It was almost as if spirits were given permission by the veil to take the Fade with them.

Titus was convinced by this that spirits were the key. I was less convinced – I felt that the structure of the veil was the true key, that we were missing something important about it, and if we could study it, we may find the answer. But after multiple discussions and out and out arguments, he finally convinced me that the only way for a mortal to become immortal was to enlist the help of a spirit. And that we could no longer use animals alone. If we were to be successful, we had to think bigger.

We began experimenting, this time with sentient subjects – I asked for volunteers among the slaves, promising them whatever they wished in payment for their bodies. To my naïve surprise, we had plenty of volunteers, and they all had the same request: free my family, give them payment so that they may leave Tevinter and find work elsewhere, and my body is yours. I willingly gave them what they wished. Meanwhile, while I dreamed I traveled the Fade, asking for help from any spirit willing to test Titus's and my hypothesis. And they came, spirits of Study and Purpose and Knowledge and Curiosity, willing subjects to this madness.

Our idea was to bond a spirit to a man, so that the spirit could exist in our world without becoming a shade, and then bond another man to the life of the spirit. A three way bond, using the blood of the possessed and the linked men to hold the spell in place. But we hit a wall – fear. The test subjects were too fearful for a successful possession to take place. They may have been willing in mind for the sake of their families, but their hearts quelled at the idea of becoming "abominations." The spirits fed off this fear and changed, warped into demons, taking the subjects with them and becoming what they feared. And then we had to put them down, one after another, wasted lives, both spirit and elf.

Ah, the looks on your faces! Yes, it was monstrous. I don't deny it. But such pride I had when I was young, such conviction that we were on the brink of discovery. At the time I mourned the loss of those who died, but considered them casualties of research. What a wretch I was.

Our body count was in the dozens before we stopped the experiments – nothing we did, nothing we tweaked changed the outcome. Loss after loss, and I began to falter in my conviction. Titus bolstered me. He agreed that we could no longer waste lives, but to give up would make the sacrifices meaningless. After much discussion, we came to the conclusion that only someone of strong heart and mind, someone who willingly gave themselves to possession without fear, would successfully achieve the bond we needed. And after further discussion, we realized that we were the only ones who fit that mold. It was decided – Titus would be the possessed, in case the possession failed, so that I, with my magic, could put him down.

I asked Titus if there was anything he wished from me, seeing as he was, technically, a slave, and I had offered the others payment for their sacrifice. Again, to my surprise, he asked only for his family to be freed and given funds and means of travel to build lives away from Tevinter. I agreed, and when his children and young grandchildren were safe in Nevarra and Antiva, we proceeded with the experiment.

We asked a spirit of Purpose for his help, and he came willingly, determining that we did, indeed, operate with great purpose. I strapped Titus down, and began the ritual. Titus and Purpose joined successfully, blended together without fault or fear. Excited, euphoric, I finished the spell, using Titus's and my blood, bonding us all together in one life force. And no, I will not go into detail on the hows and whats, Dorian, this is a ritual I've kept secret for centuries for fear that some nitwit would try it again, and I'd rather not have two or more Tituses wandering the world.

My first sign that something was not quite right was a mere hour after the experiment's success. We were celebrating, again with brandy, when Titus suggested that we test the strength of the bond. He then picked up a lab knife and stabbed me in the heart. Now, I have been stabbed in the heart a few times since, and it's never pleasant, but the shock and suddenness of that first attack caught me off guard. I was sure that my death was imminent. But no – I lived! I pulled the knife from my chest, and my heart continued to beat. The wound closed within seconds. Titus took the knife from me and slit his own throat. Blood went everywhere for a moment, and then his wound closed.

At the time I considered Titus's sudden attack mere enthusiasm at our success coupled with too much brandy. Besides, the results were fascinating. Our immortality went beyond merely not aging, as we suspected would happen. No, this was something more – our blood and our lives were one. If one lived, the other would continue. We speculated about the whys of this, and began working on a paper to share with every academic journal in the Imperium. We tested the limits of our new bodies, and found that we tired more slowly, we had more strength, we were generally more fit. We were, indeed, two men instead of one, and a spirit.

And then, disaster. Ten years after the death of my wife, my eldest son wrote to me, asking to reconnect. Apparently my children had been discussing me, and agreed that family was far too important to leave lingering on a distant estate. I was ecstatic – I invited them all to the estate, and they came, a great, joyful group of families. I had grandchildren whom I had never met, and instantly bonded with them. Children are very keen on strange things, and they found the labs delightfully strange. I was Grandpapa Antonius, purveyor of sweets and games.

Titus and my experiments dimmed in the light of my newly reconciled family. I could tell he was annoyed by this distraction, but he allowed it, given how long I had been alone with no one but slaves as company. And anyway, how were we to continue our furtive experimentation with so many people running about the halls? We cooled our lab work for a time, until one day I made a discovery.

I was playing horse with one of my younger grandchildren, galloping around the garden with him on my back, when I, clumsy old man, tripped and fell. He toppled from my back, scraping up hands and knees. My own hands were cut by the gravel path as well, but I thought nothing of it while I looked over his wounds and picked pebbles from his bleeding skin and soothed him while he cried. I healed him up quick, gave him a kiss on both hands and sent him to the kitchens for sympathy cookies.

And then I noticed that my own hands had not healed immediately as they should have. Very curious. I did not heal them, instead studying them throughout the day, waiting to see if they would heal on their own. But they never did, beyond what the body does naturally – scabs and so on. I brought it up with Titus when we had a moment alone, and we went over the course of events, trying to figure out the catalyst for change. I landed on the speculation that my grandson's blood, mingled with mine, may have undone the spell. I made a cut on my wrist to test this, but it healed as usual within moments. I finally healed my hands and made another cut, and that, too, healed within moments.

We needed blood to figure out what was happening to our spell. While my family slept, I put them all under a deep sleep and took samples from each of them, including my daughters- and son-in-law for controls. And then, with each sample, I performed a test – I made a cut in my skin and poured a bit of blood into the wound. My in-laws' blood had no effect, but my children and grandchildren's, well, the cuts refused to heal instantaneously. Their blood negated the effects of the bonding spell.

Titus and I made more and more critical wounds upon my flesh, until we determined that contact with their blood was most certainly deadly if it got into a life-threatening wound. And further, when studying the link between our life forces and the Fade, we found that it weakened with each wound, strengthening again only when the wound was healed. We had discovered a means of our undoing, for if the link was destroyed, so too would be our immortal bond.

But we discovered something else. Every time I was exposed to the blood of my kin, I felt stronger. More powerful. My mana filled, my body felt impervious. I thought at first it was simply some latent form of blood magic, but no – something about the blood of my relatives strengthened me, made me feel younger, more vital. And even more interesting, the effects lasted, continued, added to my vitality and power. It was minute, these changes, but I had small samples from my family to work with. We hypothesized that larger samples would mean larger effects on the self.

I was horrified by these findings. I felt that we could no longer, ethically, share our research with the world. There were far too many people in Tevinter who would willingly sacrifice their own families for more power as well as impervious, immortal bodies. I wanted to destroy our research, and I told Titus that we could go no further – we were finished. Titus was incensed. He called me selfish, a madman. Told me that I was throwing away the lives that were sacrificed for our findings. That the power we discovered could change the world for the better.

His ranting grew more heated, more delirious. He began to speak of bringing back an older, better time, a time before the people were disconnected from the Fade. Spoke of the voices of the trapped gods who called to him. I told him he was mad, that the spirit within him had clearly warped him, that I would break the link between our life forces and free the spirit. He calmed himself and apologized, explaining that he was simply angry. That he need time to think, needed sleep. This was my oldest friend – I trusted what he said, and soothed him, told him we would think of things more clearly in the morning.

I woke the next day to my entire household, slaughtered. Every slave. My children and grandchildren. Even the pups that the children received as gifts. And the labs had been burned to the ground. All living things, dead, my work, ruined, and Titus gone. I was in agony. The grief I felt…well, it's been centuries, and still I shy away from that moment when I realized what Titus had done.

He left no note, no indication of where he had gone, but I knew, I  _knew_  that he would seek out his family. I sent notes to his children to warn them, then rode, not for the closest children in Nevarra, but for his daughter in Antiva. When I reached her, she told me she had been contacted by both he and me, and she refused to meet with me. I did not listen to her refusal, and I used blood magic to take her and her family's minds. It was the only time in my life I've ever gone that far with blood magic, but I was desperate. Then I marched them to Rivain and hid them away with a seeker I had dallied with in my youth, after explaining the situation.

I rode for Nevarra, hoping against hope that Titus had not done as I feared. But my hopes were for naught – when I arrived and sought out Titus's sons, I discovered that they, and his grandchildren, had been murdered, their blood drained. He had taken their lives to feed his power, for reasons I could not begin to explain at the time. And now he was missing, out in the world, seeking his daughter's family – seeking both the power in their blood, and to destroy the only means of death that threatened us.

I realized I was to blame for it all. All of this madness caused by my need to live on, my fear of grief and death. I mourned for some time, grieving for the family I lost, the friend who had lost his mind, the life that I could have had. And I knew I had an obligation to protect Titus's remaining family – I could never have salvation, but they had to be made safe.

And so our battle began. I liquidated my estate, put part of it away in various investments, and used another part to build this mountain hideaway. Then I brought Titus's daughter here. The children ran off when they were raised and lived their own lives, and had their own children and grandchildren. Titus's lineage grew.

And then Titus found them. He began systematically taking their lives. He'd woo them with some tale of bringing back the time of the Elvhen. But it was never a kindness – he would use them for whatever purpose he needed them for, then kill them to feed his power. But he would never kill them all. Now he hungered for the power more than he feared an attack from any of them. And why should he fear an attack? He was now an incredibly powerful being, a creature to be feared and loathed.

Once I realized what he was doing, I confronted him. We fought more than once, but always to a stand-still. Neither of us could die by the other's hand. Even with a blade coated with one of his progeny's blood, I failed. I never got the blade close enough to his vitals to kill him.

And so, I turned away from direct confrontation, and dedicated my life to keeping his descendants safe. I followed the bloodlines, kept meticulous lineages, watched over those who would allow me into their lives, brought those who were directly threatened by Titus here, hid away any who wanted a life of peace. At one point there were hundreds of people to watch over, hundreds whom I worried for. But then the numbers dwindled, both because of Titus's bloodlust, and the normal reasons any family line dies out – early deaths and infertility.

Soon, there were only three lines left, then only three people. Sinead, you remember Keeper Yemet? The Dalish Keeper whom you traveled with on your way to the sea? He was one of the last of Titus's line. Died after a good, long life, with no surviving children. The second-last of Titus's line was a young man who was at Kinloch Hold during the Blight. Unfortunately, he was killed when a blood mage took over the tower in a fit of blind stupidity. And now you have your answer about my whereabouts while you traveled to Kirkwall.

Then Titus caught up with my movements. I was being watched, tracked. He knew his line had been nearly wiped out, but assumed, correctly, that I knew of survivors. I could not send word to you without risking his notice. I wandered for a time, then settled in Antiva City, using that old Crown of Razikale moniker – my little joke, now, for him to sneer at, wherever he may be.

Now you are truly the last. You are what remains of five hundred years of a family avoiding the attack of a power hungry madman. I had thought you safe from Titus, if not safe from life. But then the Inquisition came knocking on my door, and Titus's little birdies caught wind of you, and now we're in the muck. For there is no way Titus will give up searching for you, now that he knows you exist. He will seek you out to the ends of the earth to bring him more progeny and more power.

And we cannot let that happen.


	26. A Little Bit of Blood Magic

“We cannot let that happen,” Eluard repeated, firmly.

There was a silence in the dining hall as his story was processed by the listeners.

Sinead’s ears were ringing. But she did not feel shock or anger or fear. Instead, she felt relief. Release. It was as if she had been blindfolded her whole life and now the cloth had been removed from her eyes and she was seeing the world as it was for the first time.

Cole was watching her from across the table, hands curling and uncurling. She wondered if he had worried about her reaction. He looked as relieved as she felt. “It’s better to know,” he said softly.

She nodded and gave him a small smile.

“And why are you so adamant about protecting Sinead?” Dorian said finally, crossing his arms. “You said that only blood from Titus’s progeny can kill him. Are you planning to keep her around for your own needs?”

“Boy, I’ve seen generations of Titus’s family pass through these halls. You must think I’m a right idiot if you don’t assume I have dozens of vials of blood tucked away in storage given to me by willing volunteers.” Eluard snorted. “Honestly.”

Sinead shook her head. “I still don’t understand fully. Why is Titus pursuing my family? He’s already powerful, he’s free, and he’s immortal. What more could he possibly want? He said he wanted to raise Arlathan. What does that even mean?”

“Ah, yes. And we come to the focus of his madness.” Eluard looked around the group. “Do you know the story of Fen’Harel, the trickster god, and the way he deceived the Elven gods and their eternal enemies the Forgotten Ones?”

“Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, was friend to both,” Sinead murmured automatically. “They all trusted him, and that’s what led to their betrayal by him. The stories differ on the method of his trick – sometimes he claimed, to both sides, that he had found a means to defeat the others. Sometimes he convinces each group that he found a powerful weapon within their respective realms. Either way, the gods retreated to the heavens and the Forgotten Ones to the abyss. Then the Dread Wolf trapped them all in their realms, where presumably they still reside today, unable to escape.”

“Indeed.” Eluard smiled at her. “Excellent and succinct telling, my girl. You see, Titus is no mere power-hungry attempted conqueror or future tyrant. He’s not lying about his goal. He wishes to raise Arlathan, and to do that, he claims he must free the Elven gods from their prison. And to do _that_ , he needs incredibly strong magic, and power beyond what he currently has.”

“So he pursues an impossible goal. Surely the elven gods aren’t real,” Tal-Ashkaari said skeptically.

“Oh, yeah, they’re real,” Krem said with a shrug. “Don’t know if they’re actually gods or not, but the Inquisitor had a meet and greet with one of them that’s gone witchy. Forgot her name, though.”

“Flemeth,” Dorian said. “I believe she’s a mage supposedly inhabited by Mythal, goddess of justice, love, motherhood, various other goddess careers...well. Whether or not she’s truly a ‘god’ is a matter of argument, I suppose. Anyway, Mythal is out of the Fade, wandering the world in a borrowed body. Not one of the gods whom Titus wishes to free, I presume.”

“No. The others are still stuck. They wait, whispering behind a closed door,” Cole muttered. “They’re so angry.”

“Yes, exactly.” Eluard nodded at Cole. “You ask around the Fade for long enough, you spend some time watching the spirits reenact ancient battles, and you realize that these ‘gods’ weren’t exactly benevolent. They were mean bastards, and as solid as you or me.

“And Titus seeks more power, because he hasn’t succeeded in freeing these ancient, powerful arseholes. We’d be ankle deep in elven cultists worshiping their returned pantheon if he had. As it is, all that exists is the cult Titus has created with his show of power and his promise that each follower will become one of the new race of Elvhen. I haven’t a clue of the numbers he leads, though I suspect it’s in the hundreds. And unfortunately, I’ve had no luck locating their base of operations. His wards are as strong, or perhaps stronger, than mine.”

“But this place is safe?” Krem looked around the dining hall.

“Titus hasn’t managed to find me yet. And I know he’s been looking. Sinead will be safe so long as she stays within my wards.”

“So, Sinead’s safe and sound, then.” Krem perked up. “All we need to do now is figure out how to keep Titus from coming after the rest of us when we leave.”

Sinead glanced at him, confused. “Wait…”

“Oh, that’s not too difficult,” Eluard said dismissively. “Titus is possessed by a spirit of purpose. As such, he’s very good at determining a person’s purposeful memories. If I take away the memories of this location, you’ll be good to go. He’s a vicious man, but he disapproves of wasteful death – he wouldn’t kill any of you out of spite.”

Annoyance filled Sinead. “But…”

“Well, then, I suppose that’s settled.” Dorian sighed and leaned back in his chair. “We should probably prepare for the journey. I am not looking forward to the return trip.”

“Well, I know the location of an eluvian that can –“

“Excuse me!” Sinead thumped her fist on the table. Everyone but Cole jumped and looked at her. She blushed slightly and cleared her throat. “Eluard, I’m not staying here.”

Eluard blinked. “But…my girl, you do realize –“

“– That a madman bent on freeing terrible godlike beings from the Fade is hunting me for my blood and will not stop until he succeeds? Yes, I am aware.” Sinead could not keep the sarcasm from her voice.

His lips thinned, and his expression became the exasperated look she recalled from her youth, when she had crossed the threshold into adolescence and everything became a small battle of wills.

“Indeed,” he said, his tone clipped. “And as such, I know you wouldn’t want to wander the world waiting for him to kidnap you and whisk you away to his compound to breed a new generation of victims. Nor would you want any children you have out in the wild to be at risk, I presume.”

She laughed, again until she teared up. “You think I’m going to willingly have children?” She wheezed. “I’m a disaster, Eluard. Anything I spawn would have a tortured existence. No, Titus’s line will end with me, one way or another.”

Eluard’s expression softened. “Then why not end it here?” He waved his hand at the walls. “Safe, and without fear.”

“Because my life isn’t _here_.” Her voice was firm. “I spent nearly a decade locked up in a tower for my ‘safety.’ I’ll not spend the rest of my life in a basement hiding away from a demented old man _with_ a demented old man.”

“A demented old man with generations of his family’s blood powering his magic,” Dorian quipped. “I wouldn’t dismiss living in this safe haven so quickly.”

“Yes, you would,” Cole said, furrowing his brow. “You hate feeling trapped.”

“Touché. However, I’ve never been in quite this situation.”

“I _am_ in this situation, and I’m saying that I’m not staying here,” Sinead said, voice rising. “Eluard, I made a life for myself out in the world. I have friends, and…and a purpose. I can’t throw that all away for fear of Titus. It would go against everything I am.” She tapped her temple and her chest. “Strong mind. Strong heart. Remember?”

Eluard stared at her a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head.

“As old as I am, and I can still be made to feel like a damned fool.” He sighed. “Well, you can’t stay in one place. Titus _will_ find you, and if anyone tries to defend you, he may hurt them. So, are you proposing that you live your life on the run? Moving from town to town to keep ahead of him? You wouldn’t be the first of my charges to do so. It can be a hard life, but if you want freedom, it’ll be yours.”

“No.” She raised her chin. “I want to stop Titus for good. Even if he doesn’t find me, he’s mucking about with a plan that is surely hurting others.”

“It is,” Cole said quietly. “When he thought his family was gone forever, he started taking from his followers – the young without family of their own to fight for them. It doesn’t stay, doesn’t stick like the family blood, but he takes all the same, searching for a way to open the closed door.”

Sinead’s stomach dropped. “Maker. Those poor people.” She looked at Eluard, eyes flashing. “He must be stopped, Eluard. He _must_ be.”

Eluard laughed. “Come, now. I just told you that I’ve tried to kill him, more than once, without success. Someday I’ll try again. But the likelihood of THIS time being the one that succeeds is quite low, my girl. I’d rather you live without conflict. I can try killing him again when your life has ended and I no longer have to worry for you.”

“My whole life has been jumping from one conflict to the next since you handed me off to the Dalish,” Sinead snapped. “It’s too late to ‘live without conflict,’ old man.”

“And I say that trying to kill Titus will just get you killed, girl,” he snapped back. “Or worse – locked in a tower I can’t break in to as he uses you unto your death.”

“Is killing him the only option?” Tal-Ashkaari asked slowly. She had the look of one mulling over an idea, brow cinched, looking through the notes she had been diligently taking as Eluard spoke.  “You said that the spirit within him could be banished if the connection to him was broken, with power and with the blood of his lineage being used in the spell. Without the spirit, his power is lost, yes?”

“Well, yes. But the amount of power necessary to –“

“Sinead, when you healed Cole, you said there were two ways to gain more power from blood,” Tal-Ashkaari said, interrupting Eluard. “Pain, which is how you gained the power to perceive the cause of Cole’s illness. And more blood.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Sinead gave the Qunari woman a look. “I’ll not sacrifice any lives to stop Titus.”

“I don’t think you’d have to,” Dorian said, catching on. “Eluard, what could you do if you drew a bit of power from someone else? Or from many someone elses?”

Eluard held up his hands. “Wait a moment. Just where will you to find these ‘many someone elses’?”

“You said that Titus’s cult is in the hundreds,” Dorian replied. “I’m sure we can think of a way to get their blood flowing.”

“I’ll do you one better.” Krem grinned. “What if we had a whole army to draw from?”

Dorian clapped his hands together. “Of course! The Inquisition army. I can’t believe we didn’t think of them before! And they’d be very handy if Titus’s followers are the armed and dangerous type.”

Eluard stroked his chin. “Fascinating idea. If I took but an eighth of the life force from each person of an army in the hundreds, along with Sinead’s blood to break the spell, the amount of power collected would be enough to loosen the bonds.“ He cocked a brow. “However, Titus will immediately suspect me if he feels someone tugging at the bond. He’ll attack me without mercy. I can’t fight him off _and_ work with the finesse needed to break this possession.” He looked at Sinead. “But you…”

 

“I couldn’t,” Sinead said quickly. “Not that kind of power. It would be too much.”

Dorian chuckled. “You’re joking, yes? After that little trick in Nevarra shoving back those demons, I’d believe you capable of anything with blood.”

“You’re kidding right?” Krem said, incredulous. “Come on, I saw a whole team of Templars work to take you down. Since when are you bashful about your skills?”

“Agreed.” Tal-Ashkaari flipped through her notebook. “I have witnessed complex healing, complex ice manipulation, strong bursts of power against humans and demons. And all with your own blood. Surely this is not as difficult as you claim.”

“I can’t!” Sinead cried. “I – the last time I drew power from someone else, I couldn’t stop and I killed him. To take from many at once? I…don’t think I can do that. Not without hurting a lot of people. Please, there must be another way.”

There was a pause in the conversation as everyone considered this.

“When you killed Rein, you were afraid,” Cole said finally. “He was taking, and you fought back, fearful, frenzied. But then isn’t now. You’re stronger, more skillful, steadier.” He drew the knife he had tucked in his belt. She could not help but smile – he always had a knife somewhere on his person. Then he made a cut in the palm of his hand and held it up to her. “Try.”

Tal-Ashkaari smiled, took the knife from Cole and made a cut in her own hand. “I have never seen you use this magic unskillfully. I trust that you can do this.”

“As do I.” Dorian took the knife, wiped it off with a cloth, and made a cut in his forearm. “You dove headfirst into new territory when you healed Cole. Surely you can master a much older, known skill.”

“This is the pep talk, is it? ‘Take my blood, please?’ Damn it.” Krem shook his head, took the knife and slashed his palm quickly. “Listen, I’m not a big blood magic fan, but if anyone’s gonna use it, I’d want it to be you. Never knew a blood mage who actually gave a shit about what happened to the people the blood came from before.”

Sinead paled, looking at the bloody wounds of her companions. She could feel the panic pushing at the back of her mind.

Eluard smiled at her. “You’ve made some interesting friends, girl. Now listen to one last lesson from me – the trick is to not be tempted by the power. It’s just like ignoring the call of the demons. Feel for it, know it’s there, take what you need, then let go. You simply have to know you don’t want or need more. Strong mind, strong heart.” He nodded at the crew. “Go on, then. You’ll never learn if you don’t do.”

His familiar phrases calmed her – this was another lesson, like the ones he gave her in the forest. Perhaps, even, eventually they would have covered this skill, had not the Blight ruined their quiet life. She looked at each person in turn, touched by their trust. It was difficult not to tear up. She blinked away the wet in her eyes, then squared her jaw. She would try.

She took a deep breath and relaxed. Then she took the knife from Krem, rolled up her right sleeve, made a cut in her dead arm and pulled her power into herself. Immediately her mind felt sharper. She could feel the lives of the others, see their auras pulsing with power. She smiled at the blue-green tinge that surrounded Cole, a reminder that his spirit self was always there, if no longer at the forefront of his being. She could feel, too, the power leaking from their wounds, blood holding life.

She took another breath and touched each wound with her own power. Her natural instinct wished to heal them all in a flash. Instead, she took hold of the power of each. She paused a moment to steel herself. Then, she drew from them.

The effect was instant. To hold the power of another’s life, let alone four lives, was incredible, heady, intense. She wrapped the power around her own, around her reserve of mana, reveling in the sensation of such strength. A part of her hungered for the power, wanted all of it to herself, demanded that she never stop pulling until she took and took and _took_.

But that part of her was surprisingly small. She could feel it gnawing at her, but it was a nuisance to ignore. There was nothing to fear from it – she had faced Pride demons and Terrors, Templars and Tranquility. What was there to fear from her own avarice? She batted it away in disgust, amazed that she had ever been concerned by it.

She let go of the power from the others, like letting go of four fishing lines, allowing the catch to swim free. Then, smiling, she pushed the power she had collected into the four of them, healing their cuts, and also the sores and the bruised muscles and the aches and the exhaustion caused by weeks of travel that one hot bath and one good night’s sleep could not cure. She used it all, until she held nothing but her own mana again.

Krem blinked and looked at his hands. “Woah. I feel…really great. I was tired for a minute, like after a longer battle, and then…whoosh!”

“She healed us.” Dorian brushed a thumb over his mustache. “Well, well. And you were all jitters and nerves, Lady Lotus.”

She laughed, feeling giddy. The darkness felt far, far away. She never felt more capable than she did in that moment.

Eluard beamed. “Excellent. A fine, controlled use of the skill. A little shaky in the beginning, but you didn’t balk.” He thought for a moment, tapping his chin. “Well. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but perhaps, _perhaps_ I finally have a chance to end Titus’s quest for power for good. Of course, it’ll take more than just a little blood magic. Start talking, people. Tal-Ashkaari, put that pencil to use and record everything. What we need is a _plan_.”


	27. An Inquisitor Interlude

Inquisitor Levallan leaned over the war table, tapping one of the fisted figurines to the far northeast of the map.

 

"So our forces have routed this influx of Tal-Vashoth?"

 

"It only took a few units patrolling the roads to dissuade them from attacking villages for supplies, yes," Cullen replied. "As a whole, the Rivaini have been grateful for our intervention."

 

"We still have no word on why the  number of Tal-Vashoth in the area increased as of late." Leliana looked over her notes, flipping through papers. "My people have had a difficult time infiltrating the Qunari, and all official lines of communication deny that there's even a problem."

 

"Well, for now at least the people are safe," the Inquisitor said with a sigh. "Let Par Vollen play dumb with us while they clean house. They know we know there's a problem. Is there better news out of Nevarra?"

 

"Oh, yes." Leliana smiled and set a few of her own figures on the war map. "My scouts have combed the countryside for signs of Andraste's Flames, and the information we've given Nevarra's guard has helped scatter the mage kidnappers. We've also helped recover a number of missing persons. Unfortunately, every mage we've found so far has been made Tranquil. Nevarra's renewed Circle is petitioning Divine Victoria to move forward with experiments with the Tranquil cure in hopes that a few of these poor people will be set right sooner rather than later."

 

"I'm sure Cassandra will hear their pleas with compassion. She's been working with mage councils for months on the issue. I'm sure any naysayers she's faced will be shut down by this Andraste's Flames crisis." The Inquisitor looked at Josephine. "Any news out of Nevarra's capital?"

 

As Josephine spoke, Leliana's messenger scurried into the room, handed Leliana a note, and scurried out again.

 

"As we suspected, there has been quite a lot of pushback from the Mortalitasi and the nobility about searching through the crypts for spirits bound to the dead against their will." Josephine held up a pile of correspondences. "This is every message we've received from the upper classes about how the Inquisition is going too far with such a request. Complaints about defiling the dead, disrespecting an ancient tradition, claims that there are no spirits capable of enough thought to be aware of being bound against their will, and one or two that have no accusations of cultural misunderstandings - rather, they complain of the expense of such an expedition."

 

The Inquisition frowned. "So we are without support in this issue? Will we have to solve it more quietly? I feel I can't leave those poor spirits trapped in the crypts. Krem's description of Cole's reaction to their pain was...graphic."

 

"Not to worry. We are not without allies. An influential Mortalitasi named Gemeinhardt has taken up the cause. And apparently the Divine has written a letter to her uncle about the matter." Josephine grinned. "That will be difficult for the Nevarrans to ignore. It may take time, but with steady diplomatic pressure the issue is sure to go our way eventually."

 

"Well that is good news." Levallan brightened. "All right, let's move on from our adventuring friends to the north..."

 

"Not just yet, Inquisitor." Leliana held up the note she received. "It's another dispatch from Krem. They found Eluard. And the information about Titus in this correspondence is...not heartening. In fact, I recommend we keep it from leaving this room. I fear what it would spark in more ambitious blood mages the world over."

 

"Let me see." The Inquisitor took the note and read through it. "You're right, this is not good news, though it explains a lot. I wondered how that bastard knew where to look for Sinead when I told him nothing." She looked up and frowned. "At least Sinead's old master managed to cure her Tranquility."

 

"She's no longer Tranquil?" Cullen let out a large breath. "That is a relief."

 

"I agree," Josephine said with pleasure. "It was a sad thought to consider a bright mind like that made Tranquil. Though I admit I'm surprised that you think so, Commander."

 

Cullen shifted uncomfortably. "She's the last charge I have from the Gallows, and she was loyal to her position there and now here with the Inquisition." He cleared his throat. "And, I wasn't looking forward to seeing her like...that. It was like every warning I ever gave her was thrown back in my face when I heard that the Flames took her. We may disagree about the appropriate use of magic, but..."

 

Leland smiled at him. "You are allowed to say you care for your people, Cullen. We know."

 

"Yes. Well."

 

"You may not be as pleased for her when you see what Krem's requesting of the forces," the Inquisitor said with raised brows. "I wouldn't be surprised if you gave her an earful next time you see her."

 

She handed the note to Cullen. He read through it quickly, eyes growing wide as he finished, then passed it to Josephine.

 

"Are they all mad?" he sputtered. "That isn't a plan, that's a disaster held together with gossamer!"

 

"I think it's workable," Leliana countered. "It's likely that the Inquisition would have had to face this Titus eventually. Better sooner than later, when he starts attacking the Fade."

 

"Yes, we've already fought an ancient, power hungry being at his peak once," the Inquisitor said wryly. "I'd like to avoid another one of those, thanks."

 

"But how are we going to get a force that big up north without turning heads?" Cullen said with a frown. "If we go anywhere near Tevinter, they may see it as sabre rattling."

 

"I can pull some strings in Antiva." Josephine set down the note. "So long as we call it training and keep the soldiers away from any borders, we may be able to set up camp."

 

The Inquisitor nodded. "Get to work on that, then, Josephine. Cullen, prepare the troops. Let's help bring down this old man before he becomes a true threat."


	28. Bait

They were alone on the road, one horse between them, traveling the Imperial Highway in western Tevinter.

Eluard brought them back through the mountain pass, then led them to a small cave where an eluvian stood against the far wall. He blindfolded the horse, "else it will startle," then led them through the crossroads, through the mirrors to an elven ruin hidden beneath an outcrop in a field filled with jagged stone teeth. The remnants of sadness and anger echoed around the ruin, as they did around every ruin Cole visited. He wondered briefly if there were any happy ruins, if anyone ever celebrated the end of a temple or keep or town.

Eluard and Sinead could not hear the sadness. Sinead was too fascinated by the eluvian to focus on where it had brought them.

"Have you traveled the crossroads often?" she asked excitedly. "Do they always make one feel so ill? And how did you find them all? The one person I knew of who knew eluvian before this journey only had the one!"

"Yes, I travel them often, yes they always make me feel sick. I think it's something to do with the blood, but I'm not sure. As for how I found them, well." He snorted. "The world is littered with them, if you know where to look. It's no great art to find an eluvian. The true tricky business is finding the key that opens one of the bastards. Luckily, I've had the time and patience to sort out many of them. Only difficulty I've had as of late is all the elves using them for Maker knows what."

"Elves?" Sinead pondered this. "They say Empress Celene's former spymaster has been using the network to aid an elven uprising..."

"Hm. Doubt it's just that. The mirrors spanning through what is now Orlais are all situated in one area of the crossroads. I've seen the elves all over. Try to keep myself scarce - last thing I need is to get on yet another group of elves' bad side. But enough of that." He handed Sinead a map. "I've marked your location. Keep to the highway, and allow yourselves to be seen by others, but try to act as if you're attempting to blend in. I'll keep an eye on you." He shook the vial with the iron bark cubes. "It'll only be a matter of time before Titus's lackeys find you."

"Thank you, Eluard." She considered hugging him, but all the old hurt and loss held her back.

Eluard hurrumphed. "I'd prefer it if you were thanking me in my bungalow lair. And anyway, if this plan works, I'll be the one thanking you." He turned and prodded Cole in the chest. "You'd best keep her safe. This part's all up to you, understood? Cock this up, and all of us are in a bind."

"I know," he said quickly. "I'll do it right."

"Good man." Eluard slapped him on the shoulder, gave Sinead a nod, then disappeared back through the eluvian. The mirror went black.

And then they were alone, truly alone, for the first time since the night on the patio. Or perhaps ever, given how there was no one either of them knew for hundreds of miles save for each other. And now they were tasked to travel - just travel, with no location as their destination, and no goal but to get Titus's notice.

He hadn't been so free from doing since his time at the Spire. But those were bad times, times of not knowing and fear and loneliness. This was different - yes, there was something chasing Sinead, and yes, when she was finally caught he had a task to complete, but for now, they could do anything. Travel anywhere. Help anyone. It excited him, though he could not explain why.

Sinead, however, did not share his excitement. Or rather, she was too excited, but in the wrong way. She sat stiff-backed and silent in the saddle, her head spinning through the plan, worried that it wouldn't work, worried by the worst possible outcomes, worried that she would get her friends killed and be trapped in a madman's cult.

"Don't think of druffaloes," he said finally, when he realized that she could not let go of the spinning thoughts. "If I can hear you, he can, too."

"Right, of course."

Her thoughts became hidden, but her nerves were still aflame. She needed a destraction.

"What were you writing in your little book?"

She started, still lost in thought. "What?"

"When you were Tranquil. At first you were writing about healing potions, but then you started looking at the stars and making notes."

"Oh, that." She was embarrassed. Unsure if she wanted to revisit a memory from that time. But it was mostly harmless, aside from the nothing she felt when she made the notes."I was trying to map the stars. I made a grid out of the paper, and started marking dots for each section of sky each square represented. What a foolish idea my mind latched onto."

"Why foolish?"

"Because better minds than mine have already figured out ways to do this. They use tools to plot the course of the sky and how it changes throughout the seasons. My mind simply wanted something to do. If we had been in one place, I have no doubt that I would have cataloged each blade of grass."

"Is that...bad? Does the grass not need cataloging?"

"Not for the sake of having a catalog, it doesn't," she retorted. "It was busy work. Just as this is busy work."

"This?"

"We're stuck wandering and waiting for something to happen. Only a few hours in, and already I'm hoping it ends soon."

"Oh." He could not hide the disappointment in his voice.

"You don't think the same?"

"No."

He looked out over the road. They had passed many more travelers than they saw when they previously traveled the highway - he walked the horse around a group of villagers carrying bundles on their backs. The countryside was brownish green and dotted with copses and farmsteads. Spring was already beginning in this warmer climate, and people were in the fields, preparing the earth for planting. He could hear the tickle of their concerns, small worries that would be taken care of in time or even in the course of the day - need to get the mending finished for Flavius, can't have his trousers in that state - did I leave the kettle on? Surely I didn't, or I'd see smoke coming from the windows by now - but if I tell Minerva that her breath stinks of old pike, will she ever kiss me again?

He chuckled at this last thought. He wanted to call out that she would, but she'd be better about using her tooth scrub, but wasn't sure how to get the young man's attention without embarrassing the girl who was watching him as she washed clothes in the small creek by the fields.

"Look at how wonderful everything is," he said cheerfully. "There will always be people who need help. Once it was me. Right now it's you. But everyone here is safe, and happy, and warm, and well fed. And so are we."

For the first time since starting out that morning, Sinead paid attention to her surroundings. She relaxed into him as she took in the blue sky with its large, puffy clouds, and the smell of the wet earth, and the people calling back and forth in the fields, and the sounds and smells of goats and chickens and horses.

"It really is a lovely day." Her voice gained a brightness he had not heard in some time. "We'll have to strip down soon if it gets any warmer. I've heard Tevinter springs come on quick and are quite warm."

"I'm okay with that," he said promptly.

She laughed, and soon she set aside thoughts of Titus in favor of asking him questions about the lives of the Tevinter peasants.

* * *

They traveled for weeks - he did not know how long, though Sinead kept track of the passing time. He measured the time in the length of their hair. He had to cut away his bangs twice, and her curls reached halfway between her neck and her chin before their small adventure ended.

They rode up the highway toward Minrathous, staying away from bigger towns in favor of villages so small that no one could afford slaves if they wanted them - or, the rural villagers were all slaves, owned by a faraway master who was only made known when it was time to collect the crops. Sinead was unnerved by these slave villages, but the only difference Cole found in the feelings between slave and free was a sense of permanence - no one had the nerve to strike out on their own, lest the overseer catch wind of their plans. And, the slave villagers were nearly all elves, but so unlike the other elves he'd encountered. They felt disconnected, lost, blind, tied down. It reminded him of the Templars.

They slept outdoors for the most part, in a small tent of waterproofed felt, unless a friendly farmer offered them a night in their barn. The weather was fair, though scattered spring showers soaked them sometimes.

Every village they passed through, they stopped and looked around the shops. "To be noticed," Sinead explained the first time, more to reassure herself than for his knowledge. So they looked over leather works and farm implements and rougher weaponry than either of them had with no true intention of buying, unless they happened to stumble into a village that was literate enough for a book stall. Then Sinead could spend hours debating which books were worth purchasing and adding to the weight of their fully stocked saddlebags.

He had little interest in the shops' wares, though he did find a set of clothes in one village to replace what Sinead called his "blood-soaked nightmare clothes" - the rust-stained clothes he had killed the innkeeper and his companions in. What he preferred was wandering the villages while Sinead "shopped," righting little wrongs - finding the lost earring, complimenting the insecure child on his stitching, chasing after the sheet that got caught in the wind, convincing the crows to eat the bread he threw down for them rather than attacking the newly sown grain, helping to carry the milk pails into the barn.

Sometimes Sinead helped with the little things, if she had the chance to ask what needed doing before he disappeared into the village. She helped him thread together a broken bracelet of glass beads with suture thread from her mending kit, helped coax a cat from underneath a barn (which he was grateful for - the cat came quicker for her than they ever did for him), helped him look for a lost ball of yarn in an attic.

Once she momentarily paralyzed a group of boys throwing dirt clods at another little boy for the sin of being younger and dirtier and having a more alcoholic father than the rest of them. She then claimed to have a way of watching each of them for bad behavior and promised to come back in a thrice if she ever witnessed them be cruel to another person again. Cole was not so sure of this last part, as he knew most of the boys would be kept up at night by the thought of the beautiful, avenging mage woman turning them to stone for good. Then again, they were a group that annoyed many in that village, and he supposed the good outweighed the bad in this instance.

Then there were the bigger hurts, more painful, but easy to help, to set right with a little wiggle.

Once he told an old man dying in his cabin that it wasn't his fault that Octavius lost his footing at the swimming hole when they were both twelve. Tavy slipped, that was all. He never blamed him for his twisted arm. The old man smiled and slipped away, and so did Cole before the man's daughter found Cole in her father's room.

Another time he told a young woman where her child's father had gone, for fear that he'd become as hateful as his own father was toward his new baby. All he needed was to be reminded of how gentle he was - it wouldn't be the only help he needed, but it would be a start.

And then there were the biggest hurts they encountered on their travels, the ones where help prevented or soothed true disaster.

Once they heard a voice crying out in the distance that both he and Sinead immediately felt must be investigated. They rode hard to the banks of a fast-flowing river. A young man tumbled by, caught in the current. Before Sinead could stop him, Cole was off the horse, throwing off knives and jacket and boots, and in the water.

He found that this was a mistake. The water was too fast for him to handle. But he felt the current slow suddenly, just around the water his body touched. He swam to the young man, took hold of his leg, and dragged him to the river bank. The young man stumbled to his hands and knees, coughing up water.

Sinead walked the horse over to them and held out her arm. Cole helped her down and she ran to the young man.

"You're half drowned, but not all drowned," she said as she passed a bit of healing magic over him. "You are very lucky."

"I was just trying to get a bit of fishing done before nightfall," the young man said. "My net fell in, and I fell in after it. If you hadn't helped me..."

"You're okay now," Cole reassured him. "There's nothing to fear now."

"Aside from my father's anger about losing that net," the young man said with a grin. "Well, I can't let the two of you go without giving proper thanks. And you're as wet as me. Lemme feed you and let you dry by the fire, wanderers."

Cole felt strange about taking thanks, but Sinead insisted that it was a necessary kindness to let the young man be a gracious host - not as necessary as saving his life, but necessary to make the young man sure that he had no debt to repay. So they went to the cabin he shared with his parents, waited as his father gave him a tongue lashing for his thoughtlessness, and gratefully thanked his mother for the warm bread and potatoes and lentils with ham (Cole snuck the chunks of ham to Sinead's plate on the sly).

Another time, they ran into a quarantined village. Tevinter soldiers were rerouting travelers around the village, explaining that a fever plagued the people. The pain coming from the village made Cole reel - so many going unattended out of fear, thirsty, fatigued, dying alone. Sinead noticed his distress immediately. They traveled down the detour a bit, then staked the horse and snuck into the village. She had him tie a cloth around each of their mouths and noses "to keep the tiny attackers at bay," and one by one they visited the houses where he felt the most misery.

The villagers were desperate. Those who had not come down with the fever and did not fear the illness cared for their loved ones as best they could, but the fever ravished the bodies of the afflicted, turning them to dry skin and bone. Cole ran errands as Sinead took charge in one house after another, demanding broth soups, and water, and teas made of spindle weed and embrium and elfroot. She told the peasants to wash their hands frequently and wear cloth over their faces, but he could hear the doubt in their minds about such silly requirements from this southern healer.

The worst were the houses where there was no hope - the fevered were too far gone, wasting away and suffering each moment. She looked them over again and again, though he knew that she would find no other answer, and then she hesitantly nodded at him, and he made a quick cut, a painless end to the pain. He did not let her enter one such house - the sickened were a mother and her very young child, barely begun to walk. He claimed he could feel no one who needed to be helped by her, not a lie, not a truth. Then he pointed to another house across the way, where the people could be helped, and while she examined them he entered the house of mother and child and helped them end.

At the end of the day, when they had done all they could, they snuck back out of the village and made camp along the highway away from the detour. And when the tent was up and their dinner of beans and roots and barley was boiling, and they both had a mug of many-herbed tea to chase away the possibility of disease, Sinead finally let herself cry while he held her. She cried for the people they could not set on the path to welless while he reminded her that even those to whom they brought a swifter death were helped.

Even after such a strenuous day, he loved their aimless traveling, the two of them alone but not alone together, wonderfully wandering this new part of the world, helping who they should when they could. He loved their comfortable silences as they prepared camp, loved the sound of Sinead's voice reading aloud while they traveled, asking that he turn the pages for her, loved her soft warmth as she lay against him while she slept, loved the conversations about nothing and everything that they had. He loved the little thoughts she had about him that slipped out sometimes from behind the veil she had constructed without knowing it to hide the thoughts from him that she considered most private - he never considered the way he moved as 'graceful' until he saw himself through her eyes, flitting around the camp or a village, all limbs attuned with each other. It pleased him and embarrassed him at the same time.

He loved every minute of their private adventure. If not for the cloud of Titus's pursuit and their plan for his undoing hovering over them, he would have considered it perfect.

Not that they never had conflict. Some days one or both of them were tired, achy, sore, sullen. Sometimes the darkness took her for a few days, and she was withdrawn and somber and he became frustrated for there was no way to help but to simply be and make sure she ate and slept and washed her face and brushed her hair. Sometimes they bickered over nothings, which he always felt odd about after - how could the way she refused to let him tie her boots for her to help her speed up the process or the way she tsked after dropping something or the way he counted on his fingers or the way he hummed tunes that got stuck in his head when he heard them repeat in someone else's head annoy each of them in turn?

Sometimes they truly argued. Like the time she broke down after a few weeks of beans and caught a rabbit for herself for supper. She gave it a quick death, freezing its little heart and brain so fast that it did not have time for pain. Still, Cole was angry because he was disappointed. It was one thing for her to eat meat that was already dead before she got to it, killed by people who did not hear the last thoughts. Or to eat what was caught on the road by those who considered meat hardier than other foods and could never be convinced otherwise, like Krem. But it was another thing to kill something small for herself when they had plenty of food and she was not suffering starvation and she knew the little things' thoughts because he told her them.

"You've never complained before when I ate meat," she retorted as she dressed the rabbit - she had at least asked if it would bother him to do it in front of him, which it did not. What was dead was dead. "Wouldn't it be hypocritical of me to only eat what I haven't killed myself?"

"I don't know. Yes, maybe," he said sullenly. "But you don't have to eat it at all! We aren't going hungry."

"I was going a bit nutty, though," she countered. "I've eaten meat since I could chew on my own. It tastes delicious, and I feel more energetic when I do. You'll not convince me otherwise."

"Even though you took a life that you decided was more important as a meal?" he snapped. "What keeps you from killing other small things? Why help heal another wounded creature? Would you eat Dagger?"

"Dagger would eat us if he had to!" She was annoyed now. "Creatures, even the herbavores, eat meat, sometimes even for taste! I once saw a cow in the village my mother and I lived in crunch up a baby chick. A chick! Just snatched it up in her mouth as a treat. She was known to do that if the chickens didn't watch their broods closely."

"But they don't think like we do! You know the pain, you know the fear, you know their lives aren't lesser!"

"I don't think this rabbit's life was less important than mine, no, but it was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just as someday I will be. And it felt not a second of pain or fear - I made sure of that. Now." She staked the meat and set it over the fire. "Let me eat in peace."

"But -"

"But, but, but!" She snapped, her patience having run out. "It's not fair! You have excuses for everyone else when they do things you don't like, but I'm different because you want me to be better than other people. But I'm not!"

"But you can be better!" He huffed in frustration. "You never stop when you think you're right."

"I am right!"

He turned away from her and went back to sharpening his blades, refusing to talk to her the rest of the night, which in turn made her angry, and when they lay down to sleep she made sure no bit of her touched him. This made him even more angry, and he complained loudly to the confused spirits he met in the Fade that night until they wandered away, making excuses for why they could not stay with the strangely lucid dreamer.

The next day they both silently agreed that the subject was not to be brought up again, though he frowned in disapproval every time she caught an animal to eat and she blatantly pretended that he had no reaction to her choice of meal.

However, for the most part they traveled well together, a tiny team of two, each making sure the other was cared for and safe. And there were moments of pure contentment and bliss, when everything felt solid and sure. When she rested her head in his lap as she read by the fire, he still carving on the little hollow cylinder of winding knots. Or after the want and the need took them over, and he held her small form close as they drifted into dreams together. Or when they laughed together at the sight of a kitten bounding back and forth in front of its mother until the mother cat lost patience and batted it off the porch of the shop where she lay. The kitten shook its head and rebounded quickly, hopping back up on the porch and attacking its mother's tail.

These moments were the very best, all the more special because they knew their travels could not last. They would be found, and they would be pulled apart by design.

* * *

Titus came for her in the night, when the moons were beneath the horizon. Cole woke to the whispers of Purpose - or was the spirit within Titus Desire now? He could not tell. The spirit kept his thoughts close, as well as Titus's emotions. But the prickling whispers around his mind was enough to know that Titus was close, as were a number of his deciples.

He had known for days that they were being watched from the sky, followed down the road by a mage made a blackbird. He did not tell Sinead, for Eluard had warned him against it.

"It has to feel as real as possible. Her shock should be genuine," Eluard told him. "And you have to fight like you mean it, or else Titus will become suspicious. You'd lose anyway, don't worry. For Maker's sake, try not to die."

He hid his own thoughts from Purpose and quietly pulled on his shirt and tunic and boots and thick armored jacket, which he had been using as a pillow. Sinead stirred beside him and sighed. He brushed a hand over her hair. Why did she always look so small when she slept? Then he put on his hat, took up his knives, took a breath and rolled out of the tent into the moonless night.

He crouched low to the ground, stepping carefully so as not to rustle the dewy grasses, listening with both his ears and his mind. They surrounded the small camp, creeping closer with each moment. Titus was further away, on the road, waiting for his people to catch his quarry - alive. He wanted them both alive. Which meant Cole did not have to kill. It was going to be difficult to fight like he meant it without killing.

He skulked in the shadows as the first two attackers reached the camp and scurried toward the tent. Then he leapt at them, landing a knife in one of their shoulders and kicking her feet out from under her. The attacker gave a sharp cry as she fell. Cole pulled out his knife and kicked the wound, wincing at the woman's pain. She hurt, but she would live. And she would stay down.

Her partner jumped back and tried to flank him, but he spun around her, parrying her dagger off his. She tried to strike him again at a non lethal point, and again he parried, quickly threw his knife point first into the ground, dodged her dagger, then snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back, shaking the dagger from her hand. She tried to swing around with her other blade, but he held her tight, keeping behind her and twisting her arm higher.

"I'm so sorry," he said, giving one last push. The woman's arm dislocated with a pop. She screamed and he pushed her to the ground with her partner. He pulled his knife from the soft earth as she swung her second blade wildly at him, and he disappeared into the shadows.

The other attackers were stunned. Titus had told them to expect little from the tow headed young man who traveled with Sinead. He seemed to not be all there...yet here he was, taking down two of their best stealth fighters. Meanwhile, Sinead was awake, jerked from sleep by the first woman's cries of pain. Her thoughts ran from fear to determination to druffaloes.

The other attackers, four in all, were sweeping for him now. He kept to the shadows, tossing little stones in different directions to confuse them. And then Sinead crawled out of the tent, half dressed and hair wild, eyes glowing red in the dark of the night. She waved her hand, and four cages of ice formed around the four uninjured attackers, who yelped in surprise.

He sheathed his blades, ran to her and took her hand, pulling her to the horses.

"Good show. Really, I am impressed."

The air became heavy and thick, and he could no longer move. His hand went limp and dropped from hers. He could not turn his head to look at her.

Titus walked his horse into the camp, bright orange lanterns surrounding the air around him. He flicked his wrist, and his deciples were freed from their ice prisons.

"Tend to Bryn and Iola, please," he said, nodding to one of the young men. "A quick healing should be enough. Now." He slipped from his horse and passed Cole until Cole could only see him in the corner of his eye. "You put up quite a chase, young lady. And splitting your party as a decoy? Very clever. I assume you found Antonius. His stink is all over you - like mildew and goat milk. How on earth did you escape from his grasp? Now don't give me that look. Speak, if you wish, my dear."

Sinead gasped as he freed her tongue from the spell. "I didn't want to be locked away forever just to hide from you," she said angrily.

Titus laughed. "What a bonny girl you are. Do you see, my friends? She ran from the aggressor when she knew that his 'protection' was actually a prison."

"That's not at all how it was!"

Titus sighed deeply. "And now she raves. See how her head has been turned."

"Will she be able to see the truth someday?" One of the deciples asked hesitantly. "She seems unwilling."

"She is blood of my blood, child," Titus said kindly. "She is made to see Truth. But it may take time. She may need base pursuasion at first."

Titus walked into Cole's vision, taking up his chin. "Now what are we to do with the escort?" He was amused, grinning at Cole with cold eyes. "Or is he more, granddaughter? You share a tent. Surely that's not just to save on resources." He chuckled and gripped Cole's chin harder. "He'd be a nuisance if he lived, I'm sure. Following behind, telling tales to the aggressor, trying to find his way into our sanctuary. It may be best to end him now."

"No!" Sinead cried in anguish.

Cole thought quickly, still shielding his mind from Titus and Purpose. This was not part of the plan Sinead knew - she expected Titus to set Cole free, content that Sinead had been captured.

"And that might happen," Eluard said. "But you may be considered a threat. If that happens, make yourself too valuable to kill."

"Please don't hurt her," he pleaded. He let his emotions bleed into his words, not really a lie for his feelings were true. "Please, you can kill me if you wish, but please don't hurt her."

"I swear by the Maker and Elgar'nan and the old gods and the dread fucking wolf, if you touch a hair on his head, I'll -"

"Hold your tongue, young lady," Titus said good naturedly, waving his hand to still her voice. "I don't want to kill the boy. His eyes are so keen. See, friends, how they watch everything around him even as they focus on me?" He let go of Cole's chin and looked to Sinead. "Let's make a deal, you and I. Come quietly and do as your told, and your young lover lives. Refuse and he dies. We'll take him with us, just to be sure. Keep him as a...guest until...let's say after the birth of your second child? What say you?" He crooked a finger, once more freeing her tongue.

"You're a bloody madman you -"

Cole felt the air leave his lungs. He gasped for breath as he was freed from the paralysis spell, choking and clawing at his chest.

"Yes! I agree! Please stop, I agree!"

The air rushed into Cole's lungs. He took a few deep breaths, shaking and sinking to the earth. It was so similar to the illness...

Titus nodded at him. "Bind them both and collect their things. Put the young man on their horse. Be quick about it, please. I want to be back to Vir Arlathan by daybreak."

He was roughly dragged to the horse, his arms pulled behind him and chained together. Then he was blindfolded and made to climb up on the horse's back. He felt the horse move beneath him.

He was not sure how long they traveled - a few hours at most. The mood among the deciples was joyful, and they sang and talked together in a smattering of elven and common. He could feel Sinead somewhere in front of him, druffaloes filling her head, though nerves and worry and fear leaked out between them. He felt the horse pass through an eluvian, felt the sickness that came from being in the crossroads. And then they were in the proper world again, not some strange in between place.

In the distance there was power - a spell so strong he had only felt it's like a few times before. As they approached the power, the hairs on the back of his neck rose and his skin prickled.

"Get as close to the ward as you can," Eluard had told him. "But you'd best not be inside the ward when you set up the skry or I'll be blind."

He felt around for thoughts - someone was behind him, keeping an eye on him. Carefully, moving his hand as imperceptibly as he could, he brushed his fingers over his belt until he felt the hairpin woven through its crossweave. He slowly pulled it free, slipping it up his sleeve. He waited a while until the power felt close, almost close enough to touch. Then he knocked a foot free from its stirrup and slid off the horse, landing on his back. He pulled the pin from his sleeve and jammed it into the soft earth, then jumped to his feet as the man behind him called a halt.

He ran, but did not get far - someone threw something at his legs, and he fell forward, bruising his knees.

"Bind his damned legs to the horse," someone said gruffly as he was pulled to his feet. "This one is slippery."

He struggled with his captors as they dragged him back to the horse and bound him tightly to the saddle. Then he hung his head as they moved on, trying his best to look defeated. But he allowed himself a small smile.


	29. Vir Arlathan

The sound of the horses' gait had changed. Instead of the steady, soft thudding of feet against earth, their shoes rang as they hit stone. It woke Sinead from the light doze she had shamefully fallen into as they traveled (her eyes refused to stay open under the blindfold). She had woken once before when a scuffle broke out behind her. She knew it was Cole, trying to get away, perhaps, or attempting to drop her hairpin before they reached Titus's ward. She hoped he was successful with one or the other - they passed through a powerful work of magic not long after the scuffle. Then they continued on and on in their travels, a larger stretch of land than she assumed Titus would have needed to ward.

And now horseshoes clopped against cobblestones. And around her were the echoing sounds of a town with closely placed buildings waking up - brooms sweeping stone, people calling out to each other, cart wheels rolling and creaking, water or worse splashing into street gutters. And there was the distinct smell of horse and old manure that any town could not avoid.

She expected a Keep - thought of old stories of maniacal old mages in stormheart stone castles cackling as lightning flashed overhead. But a town large enough for cobblestone streets? Just what had Titus built over the centuries?

The horses stopped, and there was a call in elven - "Raise the gate! His Grace returns!" Then the grinding clank of chains against gears, and they traveled on. They stopped again, and she heard movement near her, then someone lifted her off the saddle and placed her on a small step stool. They led her down to the ground with gentle tugs, then touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"This way, my lady," the voice said, pushing her into walking. "His Grace said he does not wish to stun your senses. We will remove the blindfold when we reach your quarters."

"My...quarters?" She was confused. She expected cells, not quarters.

"Oh, yes, my lady. His Grace had them prepared as soon as he discovered that you lived." The voice, that of a young man, was in awe. "He wished you to have every comfort worthy of one of his kin."

"The young man I was with -"

"The escort? His Grace has been most gracious in letting one who aids the aggressor live," the young man said in hushed tones. "They are taking him to the guest rooms."

Her heart sank. So Cole was not able to get away. She had agreed to play the part of the damsel in distress, but Cole's capture made things more difficult. She could not allow Titus to hurt him.

She felt the change of temperature and heard the hollow echoing that indicated that they were now indoors. Her boots brushed against a plush rug. She was led up a set of stairs and twisted and turned down hallways. Finally she was stopped, and the blindfold was removed from her eyes. She blinked in the sudden light.

She was in a lush sitting room. Light poured into the room through two great glass windows set into one wall and a glass sunroof in the vaulted ceiling. A fire crackled merrily in a stone fireplace on the east wall, and the west and south walls were lined with filled bookcases. A bright purple and green rug covered the stone floor, and a number of plush chairs were set at intervals around the room. Both east and west walls held a door, one leading to what looked to be a bathing suite and toilette, the other to a bedroom with a great poster bed made up with a thick green quilt.

Four young women stood before her, heads aimed at the floor, hands clasped in front of them at their waists. They wore shimmery green silk gowns with wide necks that came off the shoulders and narrow skirts and sleeves with tight cuffs, and their hair was done up in simple braided crowns.

"I'll take my leave, my lady." She looked to the young man who had led her to this room - he wore white and green striped robes, as shimmery as the maidens' gowns, and his long hair was done up in a tight ponytail. "We shall see each other soon and make proper introductions."

He left her alone then, with the silent maidens. She blinked, trying to take it all in. Titus was right - she was stunned. And she was unsure of what to do or how to react. She had to play a part, but she was unsure what part to play - her original plan was to be the angry, belligerent captive, railing against the confines of her cell. But Cole's capture changed that. If she went down that road, what would Titus do to him? Would it be better, then, to play the meek, terrified girl?

And was she not terrified? She was in the belly of the beast, brightly-lit and beautifully furnished though it may be. And if the plan did not work, then she was stuck here, forever. No escape, no return to any semblance of the life she knew. A proposition she was willing to live with before Cole was dragged here with her.

The panic hit her hard, crashing over her in waves, leaving her breathless and dizzy. She wobbled on her feet and tipped over, reaching out for the back of one of the chairs, missing and falling to her knees.

The maidens cried out and surrounded her, helping her to her feet, leading her to the toilette and sitting her in a small carved chair. One of them, the head maiden, Sinead supposed, as she was the only one wearing a gold medallion, poured water from a pitcher and made her drink.

"Thank you," Sinead said groggily as the panic passed, leaving her tired and heavy limbed. "I'm sorry. It comes and goes. I'll be fine in a moment."

"My lady has had a difficult journey," gold medallion soothed. "A bath will clear the mind."

The maidens attacked her then with gentle, but firm hands, standing her up, unbuckling her brace and undressing her. She was still too dizzy to protest, and they moved too quickly for her to struggle. They led her to a copper tub of steaming water and helped her in, and with those same gentle, firm hands they scrubbed her down and washed her hair. She was too embarrassed to speak, not having had someone wash her in such a manner since she was a very small child. It was as if they thought of her as a creature covered in the world's filth, an animal who could not do for herself.

They finished, helped her from the tub and dried her off. They rubbed her down in a lotion that smelled faintly of apricots as she stood frozen, unsure of what to do with all this gratuitous touching. Finally, mercifully, they helped her into clothes - a gown made of the same shimmering silk at they wore, but of a bright blue. The sleeves were also slightly different - the under bodice's sleeves had the same tight cuffs, but the over bodice had wide, bell sleeves that reached a few inches past her fingertips. She realized the point of the style when they did not bind up or brace her dead arm. If she walked with her arms at her sides, anyone who did not know better would not realize that her right arm was useless.

It was this that finally snapped her out of her hesitancy and sparked her ire. Her arm could be a nuisance, and yes, there were things she could no longer do thanks to her injury, but it was not something to hide behind tailored sleeves. And what kind of man was Titus that he would prepare these trappings for her arrival, as if so confidant that he would find her? It made her feel slightly ill, but far more steady on her feet than she had felt since she woke up to the cries of an injured attacker.

She held on to this anger as she allowed the women to finish dressing her, still and silent as a doll. They placed her cuff bracelet back on her wrist. It comforted her to have that bit of weaponry at least - she assumed they did not know what it was, since her knife was not returned to her. Then they pulled up her hair, braiding it against the sides of her head and twisting the last of it into a bun at the nape of her neck, then placed a gold, pearl-studded circlet atop her crown.

"There," gold medallion said wistfully. "But you are a vision, my lady."

"A vision for who?" The words came of their own volition, with more ire than these unknowing women deserved, she knew. But she could not help it - her anger refused to be silent any longer. "Certainly not for me, for I can't very well carry around a mirror in front of my face all day without looking like a fool."

The women were taken aback by her sharp tongue after her complacency as they dressed her.

"His Grace warned us that she may be difficult during her transition," one of the women murmured in elven.

"Difficult but not deaf," she snapped, also in elven. The woman had the grace to blush.

"Forgive me, my lady," gold medallion said hastily, giving the blushing woman a hard look. "I only meant that you are quite pleasing to the eye. It is a joy to gaze upon you."

"Oh, only that," Sinead said wryly.

She stood up from the toilette chair and marched to the sitting room, annoyed by the weight and the warmth and the rustling of her skirts. The women followed behind in a line, standing by the windows with her as she looked out onto a large, multicolored garden where well-dressed elves promenaded on the pebbled paths, and on the ice-capped mountains that brushed the blue sky in the distance. They followed her to the bookcase as she searched the titles, finding few that she was familiar with. Then she faced them with a stormy glower.

"So, is that what I am to be for Titus beyond the continuation of his family line? A pretty thing for his people to gaze at? Propped on a wall like a piece of art?" She picked up her dead arm by the sleeve, then let it drop so that it bounced against her side. "The unpretty parts of me hidden behind a curtain? Pardon me, as I mean none of you any ill will, but I find the entire notion of being fluffed up and put on display by him disgusting."

Now gold medallion blushed. "I am sorry for displeasing you, my lady."

Sinead immediately regretted her tone. "No, I'm sorry. None of you are at fault." She sighed and sat in one of the plush chairs. "May I please be alone?"

"Again, I am sorry, my lady, but His Grace asked that you join him for breakfast when you were dressed." Gold medallion curtsied. "If you please, my lady."

"Of course he does. Can't have a moment alone to collect my thoughts, can I?" She stood again, and let the women lead her out of her rooms and down a wide, white marble, arched hallway lined with tapestries and portraiture. She gaped at the wealth on the walls and wondered again at what Titus had built in the time he had lived. She was not sure if even Eluard was aware of the extent of Titus's aquisitiions.

They stopped in front of a door where a young man in red striped robes stood. He nodded and knocked on the door.

"Enter," called a voice from within.

The young man opened the door and the maidens bowed their heads at her and went still. She took the hint and entered the room, which turned out to be a rounded solar, light streaming in from windows encircling the room, plants built up on boxes on every window's ledge. Titus sat at a small table with a book, drinking tea from a thin porcelain cup. He set the cup on its saucer and smiled at her as the door behind her closed with a click.

"I was right - the blue suits you. Though perhaps the pearls are a bit much. We can get something simpler to adorn your head - let your natural beauty shine."

He motioned at the chair across from him, and started placing small cakes and sandwiches on her setting. Reluctantly she sat, not knowing quite what else to do and finding to her annoyance that she was hungry. She bit into one of the small cakes and was further annoyed by how delicious it was.

"I always eat dessert first as well," he said, amused, as he prepared her tea. "One of the small joys of being one's own person - eating what you wish when you wish."

"What is this all about?" she asked abruptly, unwilling to pretend with him that they were sharing a normal breakfast tea together. "Giving me lavish rooms, dressing me up in this ridiculous gown, feeding me cake?"

"What did you expect? That I would chain you to a wall and drain you dry?" He laughed. "My dear, I am Titus, prophet and blessed of the gods. My people see me as the savior of the elves, which I am. You are blood of my blood, and must be treated as one of your lineage demands. Which means pretty rooms, pretty dresses and pretty cake. Ah, and speaking of blood of my blood..."

He took her hand suddenly and cut it with a small bread knife. She yelped, more in surprise than pain, as he swiped a finger in the cut and licked her blood from its tip. She grimaced and pulled her hand away, healing the cut quickly.

"You...eat the blood?" She said in disgust.

"Drink it, yes. A far quicker method of consumption than opening a wound and absorbing it that way." He took up his tea as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "And it is true, you are indeed my kin. I feel stronger even with that small taste. The power is unsullied by your humanity, luckily. Perhaps it is all the Elvhen coursing through your veins."

She shuddered. "You are a monster."

"Indeed. I don't deny it. Drink your tea, my dear. You don't want it to go cold."

The look in his eyes told her that she should not disobey.  _Obedience_. That was the part she had to play, even if every bit of her wanted to fight against it. She thought of her time in the Gallows, quietly keeping her head down as everyone went mad around her. She picked up her cup with a shaking hand and took a sip of tea.

Titus nodded with satisfaction. "There we are. A good blend, isn't it? My merchants are capable of wonders. It's amazing what one can trade for when you catch a desperate merchant passing through the Silent Plains."

"So you're thieves," she deadpanned.

"I like to consider us opportunists." He chuckled. Then he patted her cheek. "Now don't be so glum. Your situation isn't as bad as you think. I am sorry that I had to bring you here, but my hand was forced. Whatever Antonius did in that spell that bonded us, it put us in relative stasis. Do you think I would have bothered with a half human girl five hundred years removed from me if I could produce richer stock myself?"

She said nothing, staring at her tea. She willed this meeting to end with her mind.

"Suddenly silent. Well, then, let's get to business." He took on the tone of a tutor. "Why are you here?"

He waited.

"You want to raise Arlathan," she said mechanically.

"Ah, so you were listening when we first met! And how will I do this?"

"You're...consuming the blood of your kin to gain power. You want to break open the prison the supposed elven gods are trapped in."

"Ah, so Antonius shared our history." For the first time, a sincere sadness flickered across Titus's features. "What that poor man does not know could fill oceans." He threaded his fingers together and caught and held her eye. "I don't know what your former master told you of me, but let me clear up a bit of my past. Antonius was a brilliant man. Is a brilliant man. But he thinks small - he thinks of individual lives, not the well being of the whole. He shies away from the truest wrongs to keep from committing smaller sins to right the upended world."

"You know of how we were bonded? Of course you do. Did he tell you that I told him for weeks of the voices the Purpose allowed me to hear? Oh, he omitted that part, did he? Weeks and weeks, my dear, of whispers from the dark, telling me tales of woe. They felt so familiar - familial. In the deepest part of me, I knew them. And from the whispers I learned of the world's betrayal by the Dread Wolf. More than just the trickster of old tales, he is the source of our world's current madness."

"I tried to tell him, try to make him see." He was calm, but his hands had gone white from his grip. "He dismissed me as still transitioning to my new state of being. But I knew that my calling, my aim, my true goal in life was not to serve as slave for a Tevinter mage who could not hear the Truth. No, I had been given power, blessed by the lost gods of my forefathers to help free them.

"Antonius's discovery that the blood of our offspring could bring us greater, sustained power was yet another epiphany, another proof that the gods had my ear and we're showing me the way. When he refused to hear me, threatened to break the bond, I admit, I panicked." He smiled sadly. "I was still new in my power. Had I been in the same situation today, I would have acted differently. Then, I did what I thought I must to continue on."

"You slaughtered his household," she said through gritted teeth. "Your own children."

"Yes."

"And when you thought your line was dead, you started taking people from your followers."

He raised his brows. "Now how did Antonius know that tidbit of information?"

She said nothing, kicking herself mentally, hiding behind herds of druffaloes. She had forgotten that it was Cole who revealed this, and the last thing she needed was for Titus to realize just what Cole was.

"You are right. I have tried with others. Distant decendants of my siblings. I had marginal success." He smiled. "You came to me at a fortuitous moment. I was setting up another round of trials when I heard word of you. Now no more young lives need end."

"Just my life."

"Yes. But not for some time. If you follow my rules, your life shall be long and pleasant enough." He waved at the tray of cakes. "The food is wonderful." He leaned in to her. "The thing is, my dear, your life is meaningless. The lives of my children and those of Antonius's children were meaningless. In the long run, my life is meaningless. It's the life of the whole that matters, and every individual part of that whole should be working for its survival, no matter the cost."

He rose and held out his hand. With great reluctance and much inward cringing, she took it, and he led her to the windows. She gasped at what they revealed to her. The solar overlooked a small city made of marble, the buildings four and five stories tall, the streets wide and white and clean. There were colorful banners whipping in the wind, and open squares filled with booths and grass and flowers, and carriages and carts rambling along the paved streets. People in eye catching colors walked the streets, in clothes tailored much like hers and the young man she had met earlier, if of rougher fabrics than silk.

In the distance, the mountains, which she gathered surrounded this community, and up the foot of the mountains signs of civilization in the hills.

"This is Vir Arlathan," Titus said with pride. "The only place in all of Thedas at this time where elves are truly autonomous. It's a beginning. Just a beginning. Someday, when the gods return by my hand, these people will lead the elves who wander the woodlands and cower in alienages and toil as slaves to true freedom. Do you see that great building with the golden dome at the center of it all?"

She nodded, marveling at the stonework of the many columned structure, it's dome glittering in the sun.

"That is the temple. Within are seven golden thrones, waiting for their rightful owners to return."

"There are...hundreds who live here," she whispered.

"Many hundreds. Thousands," Titus confirmed. "Most living good lives. All with hope for the future. All who see me as their salvation. Which I am. And now you have come to me, to help bring my destiny to fruition. You are the great martyr." He laughed. "You think Andraste has a lasting story? You, my dear, shall become the eternal mother, who brought forth the line that allowed the gods to return. You shall be a queen in death."

If not for the plan, the panic may have taken her again. But the plan held her steady, made her stronger, gave her a sense that she was safe from this terrible future.

"And if I refuse this vision?" She said, voice trembling a bit.

"You can rant and rail and refuse, but it will not make you happy," he said calmly. "The life that I can give you is a good one. You will be tutored, of course, in both elven and the history of Vir Arlathan. As you prove yourself trustworthy, you'll be given more freedom to wander the palace and the city. We will have events in which you can choose a suitor. I care not who it is - it is a pity your young man is human, else I'd not end that match. You'll marry, have a large family, and someday when your life is near its end I will come for you.

"And if you refuse."

He led her away from the window to the door and leaned into her ear.

"If you refuse to be tutored, I'll take your young man's eyes. Use your magicks against me or my people, and I'll take his hands. Try to escape, and I'll take his feet. Refuse to marry, and I'll take his lower half. Refuse to bear children, and I'll take his life. And then, my dear, you  _will_  be chained to the wall." He knocked her gently under the chin and smiled. "Are we clear?"

All she could do was nod.  _Obedience_ , she thought.  _The game is obedience_.

"Wonderful. Now with the stick comes the carrot. Show me for a week that you are compliant, and you can visit your young man while supervised once a day. Show me for two months, and you can also visit him unsupervised once a week. Show me for a year, well. We shall see then."

"You said you would free him," she said desperately.

"After your second child, when two lines are secured, yes. That may take time. But it's dependent on you, is it not?"

There was a knock at the door.

"And here are your escorts, right on time. They are to show you the grounds. Go on then, my dear. I shall see you on the morrow."


	30. Captive

They took everything from him - his hat, his knives, his tools, his coat, his boots - everything but his clothes, then put him in a room with a bed and a desk and a stone lattice window, removed his bindings and locked the door. He was trapped in a way he hadn't been since the White Spire - no, that was not him, that was the other. He had never been so caged, confined, condemned to clawing at the walls with nothing to do but wait.

It was painful that he could not do, could not help. The whole of the city hurt in a way he had never felt before. There was a fear looming over the city - not the bright terror of those under attack, but the dull, constant ache of never knowing when the worst would strike. The people worried about the knock in the night, the neighbor who named them as heretics to save themselves from scrutiny.

And under the fear, a deep anger that flowed like fire, fierce and furious between the furrows of those faithful to Titus. For how long it had been like this, he could not know. But he knew that when such a flame of hatred existed, something was very wrong. Help was necessary. Help was  _required_.

He paced around the small room like a caught creature, clenching his hands. But that did not make things better. He felt around for Sinead's druffaloes, which soothed him - she was still hidden, though flashes of fear and anger and disgust leaked out around the edges of her mind. Then he sighed, stretched out on the floor and closed his eyes. If he could not help, and he could not do, then he'd let himself get lost in thoughts.

For a few days he traveled the trails of emotions about the town, following the worries and fears and furies and griefs and guilts of the elves of Vir Arlathan, ignoring the silent serving girl who would leave his meals on small trays just inside the door. Sleep was his only respite from his wandering mind.

In sleep, he took to wandering as well, for the Fade was strangely vacant and dull here, merely reflecting the city in gray and white tones. He'd pass dreamers listless wandering the streets, but never came upon a spirit. Not even a wisp. It was unnerving, and in fact the part of himself that was still Compassion wanted very much to be as far from this city as possible.

He realized eventually that it was Purpose who had emptied this part of the Fade. He had laid claim to the land with the power he and Titus held together, and then he had placed a warning to spirits and demons alike - keep out. Or else.

The silence made the whispers from the ones behind the door louder, more comprehensible. They tugged on Cole's perception, repeating their story of betrayal.

"But who betrayed and who was betrayed?" he retorted. "You pretend you're innocent, but I hear more than what you say."

They did not like this. The whispers left him alone then, and dreaming became a silent search through the maze of Purpose's city for anything important.

For the most part, his wondering left him frustrated. He could not reach out to help the people he heard hurting during the day, and he could not make contact with the sleeping people in the Fade, even if he stumbled into what was clearly a dream, the Fade shifting for the dreamer into childhood bedrooms or empty fields or towers without stairs. No matter how hard he tried to get their attention, they'd simply look at him blearily, then continue acting out whatever the dream needed of them. He considered once trying to find Sinead while she slept, but he decided against it. If Purpose watched his barren lands, he would certainly notice if Cole tried to make contact with his grandest prize.

He did, however, try to help when he could. One day the guard outside his door was stuck in a spiral, sure that the serving girl never noticed him - he did not have the right words, mumbling short greetings when he saw her in the hallway or when he delivered meals to the prisoners.

Cole sat up, crawled to his door and knocked a few times.

"Hello," he said, startling the guard - he had been nearly silent since he arrived. "I know you can't answer and you don't have to. But she does see you - you're the only one in armor who sees  _her._ And she likes your smile. Ask her about the garden."

He lay back down and went back to wandering, feeling the confusion and worry that flooded the guard. He wondered if he had done it wrong - maybe a land where the ruthless ruler could read minds was not the best place to...read minds. But when the serving girl came to give him dinner - the same thing it alway was, some sort of stew filled with nameless lumps and a hunk of bread - the guard cleared his throat and said,

"You been to the gardens to see them change it up for the season?"

And the girl's affection bloomed with hope, and the guard made sure to smile, and Cole smiled in satisfaction.

The most interesting thing he discovered among the thoughts and emotions of Vir Arlathan was the ones who hid. It was not like Sinead, whose shield came from destraction, or like him, who simply made his thoughts too small to hear. It was like the Orlesians and their masks. The thoughts were solid, sound, and seemed to project a confidence in Titus, a blissful devotion to the gods, a loyalty to the promise of Vir Arlathan. And nothing else.

That was wrong. People did not think that way - thoughts and emotions and memories flowed around each other in a smooth dance, a flow from one feeling to the next. They did not stay still. And they certainly did not stay so sure, without doubt or contemplation or reevaluation, unless the person was a void. But these masked people did not have the slimy feeling of a void.

No, these were people who wanted to be hidden away, unnoticed by Titus or Purpose. And the pair did not realize, in their own confidence, that the masked ones were even there. They were scattered throughout the city, like raisins mixed into smooth cake batter (Sera was very right about that - raisins had no place in baked goods). Hard knots of thought in the stream. They were even in the palace, among the true loyalists, from the kitchens to the state rooms.

He focused on them, trying to see beyond the masks, but it was difficult. They knew what not to show in a way he had only felt in one other before, and he was a special case. The necessity of staying hidden made their skill a requirement. But every now and then the masked slipped just a little - just a moment of the truth shined through before it was straightened. And what came out was the fiery, fierce fury, burning like a beacon.

And one of them, he realized, was with Sinead regularly, among the true believers who shadowed her moves through the palace. It broke him out of following other thoughts. He watched this masked one closely, worried about their intentions. Because the one time their masked slipped, there was nothing but hard determination behind it.

* * *

The palace was a place of tedium and fear for Sinead. She was surrounded by Titus's sycophants at all times, unable to be alone even as she slept - Fion, the name of the lady in waiting with the gold medallion, had a small bed tucked away in a corner of the giant bedroom that Sinead was made to occupy. The ladies went with her nearly everywhere, of the places she was allowed to go - the palace gardens, the dining hall, the library, Titus's solar and wherever Titus would tell them to bring her. They were nice enough, but their conversation only went so deep. If she asked them too many questions, especially about their personal lives, they would curtsy and say "I cannot say my lady." It was rather lonely without the benefit of being alone.

The young man who first greeted her in Vir Arlathan also accompanied her when she was out of her rooms. His name was Neirin, and it turned out that he was assigned as her tutor in the culture and history of the city state. He would quiz her on elven words as she and her ladies circled the garden for the twentieth time in a morning, and had her read a history of the founding of Vir Arlathan that was too dry and propogandic to take suriously. And he, just as her ladies in waiting, demurred when she tried to probe for more than tutoring subjects or his deep love for Titus and his Destiny.

Her days took on a boring routine: breakfast with the jovial Titus as he chatted about little personal projects of his - he cared not that she was silent throughout the meal. He apparently had a love of experimentation still, and was trying to figure out why flowers of a certain color sometimes produced a second generation of an unexpected color. It was actually a fascinating subject, but hearing this creature rattle on about plants was as unnerving as listening to a wyvern discuss literature while every now and then it licked its chops and reminded you that you were dinner.

Then it was off to the gardens with the ladies to make rounds while Neirin pounded at her elven grammar. Then to the library for lessons on history, then a short luncheon, then religion. Then, to her surprise, Titus made her sit in as those who ran the government of Vir Arlathan had their daily meeting. Though Titus was clearly a tyrant, it seemed that at some point he realized he was not made for statescraft. There was a council of sorts, all of whom lived in the palace with their families. Some of them came from families who were among the first of Titus's converts. Others were elected from the common people.

She was not sure why she was made to sit in on these meetings, most of which detailed the nuts and bolts of keeping a city state of thousands functioning. She discovered that much of their income did indeed come from trade of sorts, though only a select few were allowed to venture beyond the wards surrounding the city. They also managed to be autonomous with crops. Everything else was stolen from human merchant caravans around Thedas, thanks to the eluvian.

There was also quite a network of spies, though their job seemed more about observing Eluard's movements, and those of merchants, than anything else. There were some who watched the borders of the wards, but beyond that, none engaged in any other nation's politicking. Everyone seemed wholly unconcerned with the outside world, aside from what they could take from it with the point of a knife.

It made her wonder where exactly they were in the world for them to be so blase about discovery. Even if Titus's wards would prevent discovery by someone who was looking for them, surely people had stumbled upon Vir Arlathan at some point. It was not invisible, after all.

"It matters not where we are, we are protected by the gods," Neirin said piusly when Sinead asked. "They know that if we were discovered, our way of life would end."

Titus merely gave her a secret smile and continued talking around her questions.

A week of this tedium and the hard work of keeping up her guard in her mind exhausted her. She began snapping at Neirin during her lessons.

"Oh, yes, it's all very good that children don't work and must go to school," she said sarcastically one day, tossing a book about the joys of education under Titus's regime into Neirin's lap. "How brilliant and wonderful. So sad that they are entered into a lottery and assigned their life tasks at random when they come of age."

"But don't you see? It is the most egalitarian way! A merchant's child can become a laborer, a laborer's child an academic. The gods ensure that we are led to our rightful path. Only those on the Eternal Council are god-chosen for life, and those on the lower council chosen by their brethren. All jobs, all manners of making one's way through life are now important."

Sinead snorted in disgust. "Even the Qunari work hard to make sure that every citizen is assigned a duty they are good at and will at least moderately enjoy."

"That isn't enough to prevent tyranny," Neirin explained patiently. "When Titus was a slave, before he was blessed by the gods, he witnessed how even slaves upheld one person or another based on the skills they had. But to consider a seamstress above a scullery maid did them both a disservice, for now both slaves think the seamstress somehow has a better life, a better position, when in fact they are both at the mercy of their master. Skill does not make a person better than another. And so we are assigned our tasks by lottery every five years to remember this. And anything we truly enjoy becomes a hobby to follow of our own design."

"And what if someone isn't made for smithing or tailoring or farming? What of all the terrible horseshoes and poorly hemmed robes and lost crops that come from this occupational rotation? Surely this is inefficient!"

"One who does not master their gods-given task is filled with sin." Neirin's face took on a serious expression. "They are wanting, and will be visited by the Ravens."

The ladies in waiting, who were talking quietly among themselves in a far corner of the library, hushed when Neirin mentioned the Ravens. Sinead had discovered that this name could cause a chill in the friendliest room. They were Titus's secret guardsmen. Their numbers were strong, they were considered a class apart, and they were completely made up of mages. In fact, any child who showed signs of magical ability was taken away from their parents and given to the guard.

The more she learned about this marble city, the more she hated it.

"How can you sit there thinking that this is in the right?" She shook her head, and looked around the library. "How can any of you think this is how life should be?"

"We must be leaving now, my lady," Fion said firmly. "Another walk in the garden to clear your mind."

Walks in the garden were becoming Fion's favorite punishment. Sinead let herself be led away, remembering that obedience was the game she had to play.

She found Fion particularly loathsome of the ladies. She was a daughter of one of the Eternal Councilors, and though she preened over Sinead, gave her calm smiles and said soothing words, her eyes had a flinty countenance that made Sinead wary. Also, she had taken to wearing Sinead's knife on her belt, which Sinead read as a direct challenge - you may be the prophet's granddaughter, but I am in charge of  _you_.

Worst of all, she would read to the ladies and Sinead every night in front of the sitting room fire from the poorly written book of Scripture written in elven that apparently every household in Vir Arlathan had a copy of. From what Sinead gathered, Titus had, at some point, cobbled together a number of elven myths, along with a warped version of how he gained his power, and written it in the style of the Andrastian Chant, if the Chant was written by someone without any lyrical talent. It was dreadful, both in style and in story. But the ladies seemed to know certain passages by heart, and encouraged her to memorize them as well. Sinead did her absolute best to ignore them and whatever was in the Book of Titus.

Finally, after over a week of this tedium, nine long days, Titus smiled at her over the breakfast table and said, "You've kept up your end of the bargain, my dear. I don't see why you cannot visit your young man." Then there was a knock at the solar door and before she had time to react three palace guards whisked her away without another word, down a flight of stairs to a corridor lined with doors where she had never been before.

"The guest rooms," one of the guards said grimly.

At first, Sinead was not sure why the hallway elicited such a response. It was as richly furnished as any other area of the palace. That is, until they passed a door with a guard on duty behind which came a muffled cry of pain. She paled. A dungeon without the comforting surety of being called what it was. She hated this city with a fervent passion.

They stopped in front of another guarded door. The guard nodded to his colleages, bowed to her nervously, and opened the door. All four guards followed her in.

Cole lay on the floor, hands behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling of the sparsely furnished, but clean room. He glanced at her as she entered, then smiled brightly and rolled up to a crouch. He was pale, much paler than he had been since his illness, and he had deep purple smudges beneath his eyes.

Her heart fluttered. She took a step toward him, but the door guard barred her way with a hand.

"I'm sorry my lady," he said hesitantly. "His Grace says you can't get too close. You may pass something to him."

She glared at the guard.

"It's not his fault," Cole said quietly. His voice creaked a bit. "Everyone here is so afraid."

"I'm not surprised." She swept up the skirts of her gown and joined him on the floor. "The way Titus makes these people live is nightmarish. And I haven't heard anyone say a word that doesn't sound either zealous or carefully calculated. It's worse than Orlais!" She looked up at the guards framing her, who shifted uncomfortably at her words. "Go on and tell Titus I said so. I have a feeling he won't care."

"He will. He needs you to play the right part." He frowned. "You  _look_ beautiful."

She glanced down at her gown, of the same design as all the others, but a light purple.

"They put me in these stupid clothes," she seethed. "Do you see how they hide my arm?"

"A ballgown to bind you."

"Indeed." Her voice cracked. "Are...are you okay? They don't hurt you?"

He shrugged. "I eat enough. They make me wash. They leave me alone."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Because you won't like the answer."

And that's when she noticed it - the way his hands never stopped moving, fidgeting with the ends of his hair, his sleeves, each other, placing a finger in his mouth and nibbling on a nail. The way his eyes held steady on her, but seemed a little too bright. He seemed about to burst with pent up energy. She wanted to reassure him that this was temporary - his capture may have been a snag, but the plan was still solid, so long as Cole had been able to do his part.

"We'll find a way to help them all," she said firmly, not sure what else to say without sounding suspicious. "I swear it."

He relaxed and nodded. "I was told that you have to marry someone." He gave her a small smile. "I'm sorry you lost your mother's hairpins. You could have worn them at the wedding."

She raised her brows. Then she returned his smile. She had never heard him be so duplicitous, though he did not quite lie. She was almost proud of him. And now she was sure he had succeeded. All they had to do for now was keep their heads down and wait. She hoped this dreadful place did not drive either of them mad before the Inquisition arrived.

As this thought crossed her mind, Cole lunged at her, wrapped his arms around her in a tight squeeze and placed his lips against her ear. Just as the guards began to react, he whispered,

"Someone who's around wears a mask. I don't know who. They are very angry. I think they -"

She never heard the last of his warning. Two of the guards pulled him off her and flung him on his bed while another took her by the arm and pulled her out of the room. She was hustled away from the guest rooms, pondering what Cole meant by his words. Nothing good, she was sure.


	31. Alliance

He was losing himself. He could feel it, the way he drifted throughout the day in the thoughts of others, the way the drifting continued in dreams. He had never felt so alone, even at the White Spire - at least there he could walk around unseen, watching, around people if not with them. In this pretty prison, he was trapped with no one but himself for company, and nothing but the thoughts to distract him. He lost track of time, unsure of how long he had been between the same four walls, how many meals of indistinct stew he had eaten.

Sinead's visits helped. He came back to himself then, focused on her voice, her expressions, her never ending herd of druffaloes. He began to crave the short time they had together each day, anxiously pacing after his morning ration, until he heard her coming and the guards opened the door and escorted her in. Then he would relax and listen to her talk or read if she brought one of the terrible books she was made to study with her. Sometimes they played cards, though he kept forgetting to take his turn.

And then she was gone, and his mind turned to worries, worries about the masked person still hovering around her, worries for the circles around her eyes that spoke of a lack of sleep, worries about the hints of her fear that would fall from her head. Then bigger worries about the people in the city and their terrible troubles and the nothing he could do for them while stuck in his cell. And then he was gone again, drifting in thoughts. For days. Weeks. A month, maybe?

He was aware that his humanity had so far been a difficult path with flashes of pleasantness. That did not usually bother him - he knew that there were others whose lives were far more difficult. The people of Vir Arlathan, for instance. But this doing nothing was almost too much. More than mourning for Sinead, or for the first Cole, or grasping the sharp blade of mortality. It was everything that was not him.

He knew it would not be forever, these gray days lying alone on the floor, waiting and watching for some sign or signal of the Inquisition's arrival. But after an unknown amount of time passed, knowing this no longer helped. The moments passed slowly, and his only diversion was watching Sinead also wither away, face wan, voice becoming more and more dull and stilted from a lack of an ability to speak freely. The more drawn and tired she looked, the less it helped to remember that the situation was temporary, the more impatient he became, the longer each moment passed.

And then, early one morning when the sky was still dark and the barest glint of sunlight shimmered on the horizon, he was awakened by a sharp clink against the lattice window. He jumped up from his bed, quickly checking on the guard to see if he heard. But the only thing in the guard's head were dull thoughts about how much he owed from losing so often at cards.

Cole hurried to the window, standing on the small desk so he could reach it, and looking out on the dark, sleeping city. Someone was out there, someone he knew, who was instinctively keeping their thoughts quiet, careful, calculated ...

And then a head appeared at the window. It was so sudden that he nearly fell off the desk. An elven woman with her hair up in braids and a stern eye. Satina's light cast shadows on the woman's features.

"Charter," he whispered.

"Hello again to you, ghost," she murmured. "You look like shit. More than usual, anyway."

He opened his mouth, full of questions that her quiet mind was not answering, but she placed a finger on her lips. She looked away for a moment, as if searching for a signal. Then she nodded and looked back at him.

"Leliana said this would be a tough assignment, and she wasn't joking. This place is a mess. You know that, don't you? Of course you do." She rummaged through a pouch slung across her shoulders. "Only chose the best of my elven scouts for this mission, and we've nearly been compromised twice just from the nosiness of the tyrant. The ass is so scared of his own people that even the most ordinary citizens are questioned regularly. Took some time just to set up this little meeting."

She shoved a small leather sleeve through the window. Cole caught it, and unraveled it, revealing a set of lock picking tools.

"You've got a place to hide those?"

He nodded, grinning at the tools. It was like a little piece of him had been set back in place.

"Good. Be ready. Make sure the girl's ready, too. Things are going to move fast once they get started."

"When will they start?" he asked, taking hold of the lattice. "Is it almost over?"

"Almost. Can't imagine what it's been like inside the asylum. Just hold tight a little longer. You'll know when it's time."

Leliana's second in command gave him a nod, then disappeared from the window. Heart rising with anticipation, Cole scrambled off the desk and hid the tools inside his mattress. He lay back on his bed, hands behind his head, feeling far more secure with his means of escape at hand. Suddenly the waiting was not so bad.

* * *

Cole's warning stayed on Sinead's mind throughout her days at the palace. There were very few who were frequently around her - the four ladies and Neirin, Titus, and perhaps a servant or two whom she was not allowed to see cleaning up her rooms and preparing the fires. It was a very short list of potential threats beyond the looming shadow of Titus.

And the bit about the mask was difficult to decipher. She considered it from from Cole's perspective. To him, someone who wore a mask would be hiding their true selves, their true feelings and emotions. But in her opinion, everyone in this wretched palace wore a mask - masks of piety, masks of dilligence, masks of loyalty. So, the mask had to be more than just what people showed in their spoken words and actions. Perhaps the masks were similar to how she and Cole were shielding their thoughts from Titus? If so, then someone near her was a potential ally.

She thought first that it may be Fion. But the woman's flinty eyes and syrupy words seemed not quite right. Then she thought of Neirin, but the young man was so dreadfully earnest that it seemed impossible. A servant, then, or one of the quieter ladies. She would have to get more out of Cole if she could.

But every day that passed, Cole became more withdrawn, pale, lost in thought. He smiled at her when she would visit, then would sink inward as she spoke to him or read to him, hands never still. A week passed, and then another, and he began to inturrupt her with tumbles of words:

"She cries at night, alone, afraid. She knows they'll never return."

"Burned again, how can it be again? He kneads the dough late into the night. He cannot fail."

"Every day she prays to the gods, and every day she fears that there will never be an answer."

"Cole," she would say gently. And then he would come back, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry. They're all so loud."

And he would go quiet again, lost in the thoughts of others.

It distressed her to see him so unwell. And there was nothing she could to but wait, wait as yet another week passed without word from the outside world. A whole month of tedium and fear and worry. There was a little nugget of fear deep within her that worried that the Inquisition would never come for them. That she would watch Cole waste away, and be forced to comply to Titus's mechinations.

It did not help that she had to constantly be on guard. It was exhausting to keep her thoughts hidden for such a prolonged amount of time. And Titus was no fool. One morning he asked with a dangerous gleam in his eye,

"Why is your mind filled with herd beasts? Honest thoughts rarely slip through them."

"My mother told me long ago to not think of druffaloes when I was afraid," she said quickly, looking down at her plate. "So that it would be the only thing I'd think of. I don't want to...I..."

She could feel the panic rising within her, and let him see it before taking deep breaths to quell it. He raised a brow and smiled, satisfied with this answer. Fear, she supposed, meant obedience to him, and he did not think to probe her further. He was no fool, but his arrogance kept her safe.

Then one day, Cole was far more alert than he had been in weeks. His cheeks had a bit of color in them, and his smile held a secret. As she read from an old copy of elven poetry, his hands were still in his lap. And she knew that the end was drawing near. When the guards ended the visit, she gave him a small nod. She was ready to end this little adventure as an undercover scout.

But though there was a flicker of light in the darkness, the end came not as quickly as she wished. Now every day that she spent still as Titus's bounty weighed upon her. Her pretty chains rankled her, the nothing conversations of the ladies made her want to tear at her hair, the daily propogandic lessons from Neirin became insufferable.

And to her great annoyance, a few days after Cole's demeanor improved, Titus announced that she was ready to join Vir Arlathan's society. At breakfast, as he poured her tea, he smiled and said,

"The priests have chosen the date for your anointing at the Temple. All of Vir Arlathan proper shall bear witness as you take up your mantle. Is that not exciting for you?"

She did not reply, clenching her teeth to keep from snapping. Her head ached. How much longer did she have to play along with this farce?

"Due to your coming ascension, I believe it is time for you to start accepting visits from suitors."

Her eyes went wide and she cringed inwardly. "Aren't I too much of an embarrassment still?" she asked quickly. "I mean, what with the speaking out of turn and general disagreeableness..."

"Neirin claims that your studies have gone well. And the bite in your tone is nonexistent now." He nodded and set the teapot on the table. "I believe you can be alone with my citizens without embarrassing me. The council announced your need at Temple services, and we've had quite the response from the faithful. Of course, I've allowed the priests and the Ravens to cull undesirables."

"No citizen of Vir Arlathan stands above another," she chanted dully. "How can any be undesirable?"

Titus laughed. "That's a matter of liturgical debate that I'm not about to have with the priests. Sometimes you must allow the citizens to act on their own. Gives them the impression of self determination. One must keep up appearances, after all."

"You told me I'd be able to choose the man you make me marry. When you said that, were you also simply giving me the impression of self determination?"

He did not answer her question, giving her a wide grin before saying, "Your first meeting will be this afternoon. A little test before you begin meeting with the citizenry. Neirin put in his name as a potential suitor."

"What?" She narrowed her eyes. The quiet tutor never gave her the impression that he desired anything more from her than her studious attention. An attempt to position himself into a place of power, perhaps? An act of piety? Or was their more to the young man than she suspected?

"Now don't react so harshly. You knew this time was coming. And Neirin is an acceptable match - intelligent, kind, and even your age! You should see some of the elders the priests have chosen." He laughed. "You've done well so far, my dear, with keeping up your end of the bargain. Prove to me that you can meet with Neirin alone without lighting things on fire, and I'll open the doors of Vir Arlathan for you. However, act poorly, and Neirin  _will_  tell me if you act poorly -"

"Yes, yes, Cole has no hands or eyes and I'm chained to a wall. I was clear on your message the first time," she snapped.

Titus smiled and nodded. "Drink your tea before it goes cold."

* * *

Fion took even more care of Sinead's appearance after midday meal, reapplying lotions and powders and repinning a few locks of hair that had escaped their braided bondage.

"Neirin is a fine man," she cooed as she worked, directing the ladies in smoothing Sinead's skirts. "I have known him since we were children. He's always been a bright, darling person."

Sinead frowned. "You're one of the future members of the Eternal Council. Neirin is a citizen and part of the five year lottery. How did you two cross paths?"

"The Eternal Council is not completely isolated from the populace like nobles of the outside world," Fion said quickly. "I have known more than one member of the common people since childhood."

"I see."

Sinead considered this slip of the tongue. From what she observed in her time at the palace, this was nonsense. Titus allowed the Eternal Council and their families to remain a class apart, noble in everything but name. Most of the priests came from the younger children who would not inherit a seat on the Council, and they tended to intermarry. And Neirin, in his lessons about Titus's magnanimity, used his common citizenship as an example of how all people's were equal.

So how could Fion call Neirin a childhood aquaintence?

She mulled this over as the ladies led her from her rooms to the stairs of one of the tower rooms where Neirin wished to meet with her.

"I've always enjoyed the view from there," he said nervously during their morning lesson. "I thought perhaps I could share it with you."

She wondered if some memory had leaked from her mind and been picked up by Titus. A meeting by a suitor in a tower seemed to be almost mocking her. But she complacently followed the ladies, and they curtsied and stood at the doorway while she ascended up the two flights of tower stairs alone.

The small circular room was sparsely furnished - a thin rug, two wooden chairs, a table between them. It was so similar to Cole's cell that she wondered if it had once been used to hold a prisoner. A glass window overlooked the city, and the tower was high enough to see the foothills of the mountains beyond the city's walls. Neirin stood at the window in a bright blue robe, staring at the mountain peaks. He turned and gave her a stiff bow when she entered.

"My lady. You are looking - you have always looked - forgive me, no one can accuse me of being charming. I'm not very good at this."

Snead took a breath, wishing very much that the Inquisition would stop taking its time. She had no desire to go through with this particular dance required by Titus. But Neirin was nice enough, if dull. She did not wish to make this any worse than it had to be.

"Shall we sit?" she said lightly.

"No I...I'd very much prefer if you come stand with me by the window. I'd like to show you my childhood home." He smiled hesitantly. "We know little about each other. I thought that could be a start."

She nodded and approached the window. His hands twitched slightly by his belt, something she did not think was important enough to notice if it did not remind her of something she had seen before...

"If you look out at the main square, and then look two streets over, you will see a building that flies a green-striped flag. That is where I was born." He pointed out the window. "Do you see?"

For some reason, she was suddenly wary. What was making her wary? That little movement by his belt, it -

"My lady?"

\- it reminded her of Cole. When he was readying himself to use his knives. She furrowed her brow and took a step back from Neirin.

"Fion said an interesting thing today. She claims to have known you since childhood. How could that be?"

Neirin was taken aback. "I...we..."

"She would have been tutored here in the palace. You would have gone to a common school. Did you meet at the Temple? At some festival? At a weird let's all pretend that this is an egalitarian society children's group?"

"My mother was chosen in the lottery to work at the palace," he said quickly. "She brought me -"

"Forgive me, but that is bullshit. No children allowed among workers, remember? I have been paying attention to your lessons, you know." She straightened her back. "And now I know that you're lying to me. Why?"

He stared at her a moment. Then, the mask dropped. His nervous, gentle face became cool, calculating. Before she had time to react, he drew a knife from his belt and lunged at her. She stumbled back, her feet tangling in her skirts, and she fell, Neirin's blade just missing her chest. He turned, flipped the knife downward in his hand, and stabbed down, aiming for her heart.

Without thinking, she put up her hand and sent out a bolt of lightning. He stopped his attack, jumping to the side to avoid being shocked. She scrambled backward, sliding over the floor to the wall and scraping the palm of her hand against the stone. As he lunged again, she pulled at the blood and threw out a wave of power that caught him midair and slamed him against the opposite wall.

Then, to her surprise, he threw a barrier over himself as he fell to the floor. He recovered quickly, rolling to his feet, and throwing a fireball at her. She blocked it with her own barrier, cursing her skirts for trapping her on the floor as he ran at her again. She wrapped her blood around her mana and pulled the air from his lungs.

He gasped and collapsed, holding his chest. She held the air back as she pulled herself to her feet, using the wall as support.

"I learned that little trick from Titus, the bastard," she snapped, building a cage of ice around Neirin. She let go of the air, and he gasped as he sucked in breath after breath. "I'm not fond of killing. However, I've a mind to call the guards and let Titus deal with you. I'm sure he won't appreciate someone trying to murder his little pet."

"Call the guards," he said coolly, recovering his voice. "I may have failed, but the resistance will continue without me."

"Resistance?" Sinead healed her hand and approached the cage. "There is truly a group working against Titus's rule?"

He gave her a pitying look. "I am sorry that such a pretty fool has been caught up in this dangerous place. You are not to blame for your grandfather's sins. But you must die to free us from his reign. Others will come for you, even if Titus locks you away. We are legion."

She set her teeth. "A pretty fool? I'm not the one trying to kill Vir Arlathan's best chance at ending the bastard! Did none of you do a little research before deciding to kill me?"

He narrowed his eyes. "We know the truth. He needs the blood of his direct line for his continued survival. Why else would he have used so many of his resources to find his kin for centuries? Why does he take the children of his distant relatives now, though it fails to feed his immortality?"

"Is that your speculation? Not a bad one, but wrong. He'd still live if I died. Did none in your group reach out to Elua - Antonius, I mean?"

He scoffed. "Why would any contact that corrupt old man? He is Titus's creator!"

"Maker, this is a mess." She sat in one of the chairs. "I'm not calling the guards, and I'm certainly not going to kill you. Though if Titus is watching you, it will be moments before he arrives."

"I know how to hide from him," he replied stiffly. "I do not fear his inner gaze."

"So you're the masked one, then. Cole will be disappointed that I did not figure it out sooner. Before you tried to murder me, that is." She tangled her fingers in her hair. "Let's clear a few things up - I'm not here against my will. I came to stop Titus because I did not want to spend my life running from him. And now that I've lived here for a good month or more, I'd also like to see the man's throne taken from him. My...Cole is here for the same reason."

Confusion crossed Neirin's face. "But...how would the two of you -"

"It isn't just the two of us. I'm a member of the Inquisition, and they are on their way. Or are you not aware of the Inquisition?"

"We are aware, and we knew of your connecton, but we..." He went quiet for a moment before continuing. "Did they not let you go as a loss? You can't be found with the wards..."

"We set up a beacon just outside the warded area. Do you think we hadn't thought of that? Further, just so you know, my blood is the only thing that counteracts the spell keeping Titus alive and the bond that holds the spirit possessing him. You would have been in quite a pickle had you succeeded in killing me."

"Spirit...possessing him?"

Sinead sighed, and started from the beginning, telling Neirin everything she knew about Titus. As she spoke, he became more and more agitated.

"This cannot be true," he snapped. "You are essentially saying that the man is unkillable! We thought him a parasite, a creature who currupted his blessing from the gods, and now you tell me it is even worse - he is just an opportunist!"

"Oh, no, even worse than that," she said. "He really believes he's some sort of prophet building a golden utopia for his gods. You don't eat breakfast every day with the man and not pick up on this. And he sees the people as window dressing. He honestly thinks that he will storm the Fade and free the gods once he gains enough power. Vir Arlathan is his wrapped gift to them, with ready-made subjects."

"Why should I believe anything that you're telling me?" He frowned and shook his head. "You could be a misdirection -"

"Damn, so could you." She placed a hand on her mouth, realizing that if Titus had set up this whole meeting, then she had given the game away. She pushed away the panic. "I suppose we'll just have to trust each other."

She tilted her hand, and the ice shattered and evaporated around him. He blinked, surprised.

She motioned to the second chair. "So. You're a mage. I thought all mages are Ravens in this joyful little town."

"I am a Raven." He hesitated, then sat down across from her. "That is how I know Fion. We were in the same training class together."

She grinned humorlessly. "Titus surrounded me with his special guards?"

"Just so. We were told you may be...difficult. He was pleased that you turned out to be so accommodating. Some bluster at first, then meek obedience. We assumed that you were keeping your lover safe. Or that you never had it in you to be difficult."

"And Fion is also part of the resistance?"

He chuckled, his cool demeanor breaking. "No. She is a true believer. She'd kill me if she knew what I just tried to do." He glanced at the window. "My...friends will think that I've been caught. Your death and evidence of your body was to be the signal to start the uprising. We have people positioned all over the city..."

"Can you get a message to them? Have them wait? The Inquisition is due any day. I imagine the Inquisitor's been informed by her spy master of the way this place is run. She has a habit of helping the oppressed - she no doubt is prepared to see Vir Arlathan freed."

He rubbed his chin. "She is planning to attack the city?"

"Are you joking? Absolutely not - the casualties from such an attack, let alone the civilians getting caught in the middle..."

"Then why wait, if there will be no military support from your Inquisitor?"

"I didn't say you'd have no military support, I said she wouldn't attack the city. And you'll cock everything up if you riot now," she said, frustrated. "Titus will win, I assure you. He'll kill anyone he suspects is part of the resistance. And then he will be on alert, and it will make  _our_  plan that much more difficult to carry out. Keep still, however, and you will have an opportunity to take the city."

He crossed his arms. "And how will your plan allow this?"

"Because I'm still alive." She smiled. "A predator is more likely to stalk live bait. That's all you need to know for now."

He raised his brows. He considered her words for a moment. Then he nodded and stretched out his hand.

"We will wait. Two weeks, no more. We cannot ethically have our people in danger longer than that."

Inwardly she relaxed in relief. She took his hand.

"With any luck, they'll be here long before the end of two weeks." She nodded. "It's good to finally meet you, Neirin."

"And I you, Sinead." He coughed. "I...apologize for calling you a fool."

"Well. I can't honestly claim I've never been foolish," she said sheepishly.

She stood and gave him a small nod, then left him. He called out to her while she descended the stairs, but she was not sure how much longer she could keep calm and did not want to stop for fear of the panic. Her adrenaline was dissipating, and she was beginning to shake. The number of times she had been too near death in her life was becoming ridiculous for a woman who preferred archives to adventures.

It was not until she reached the last stair and saw the looks of disbelief on her ladies' faces that she realized why Neirin called out to her. She looked down - her skirts were a mess. She imagined her hair was not much better.

"It was...an eventful meeting," she said, blushing.

Fion smiled sweetly. "I imagine it was."

They led her back to her room without another word.

* * *

Sinead was right - she did not have to wait long after Neirin's attempted assassination for the Inquisition's arrival.

Two days later, as the ladies dressed her for breakfast, Titus entered her rooms. They cried out protests, as Sinead was still in her bulky underclothes.

"Leave us," he said kindly. "I wish to speak to my granddaughter. Alone."

The ladies glanced between themselves, then curtsied and left in a hurry. Titus kept his smile until the door clicked behind them. Then he was on her, grabbing her by her arm and dragging her to her feet.

"Where is he?" He snarled, his eyes flashing a silver-blue.

"What? I don't -"

"Lie not to me, girl." He shook her and threw her to the ground. She hit the stone floor hard enough to stun. He crouched over her, turned her on her back and slapped her twice, splitting her lip. She tasted blood in her mouth. "Where is your young man?"

"I don't know," she said, dazed.

He pulled her up by her hair, making her yelp and grab his hand. He leaned in close to her.

"You think to play a game with me," he murmured, cold wrath in his voice. "I wake this morning to hear that some time in the night your young man escaped his cell. Wounded three men, then disappeared without a trace. And not only that, an envoy led by the Inquisitor is knocking at the city gates. I'm sure you have no knowledge of how that came to be, do you?"

She did not answer, merely turning her head to look at him straight on and giving him a small smile. He growled in disgust and threw her to the ground again.

"Heal yourself and get dressed. I will play this game, for now. We will meet the Inquisitor. And then, my dear, you never see the light of day again."


	32. An Inquisitor Interlude

Cullen paced around the tent, hands clenched, head shaking in disapproval.

"I have two hundred men and women under my command, believing that they're here to help liberate a city from its oppressor, and you tell me that you've deceived me all this time? Deceived them?"

"I've deceived no one," the Inquisitor said calmly. "I did not know the extent of the plan until we arrived, and for good reason. And the soldiers  _will_ help liberate this city. They're still on standby to protect citizens if things get out of hand..."

"But their main task is to be bled for magic! A skill that is outlawed in every country that follows she who sits on the Sunburst Throne! A despicable practice that -" He stopped and turned on the Inquisitor, stepping up to her and waving his hand down in a cutting motion. "It's madness!"

"I've been assured by Eluard that the amount of power Sinead will take from each person will be harmless to the individual. And Dorian and Krem have vouched for her abilities. They say that during their travels together -"

"Maker's breath, I care not who says what regarding blood magic, nor who's behind the spells," he snapped. He pulled a hand through his hair. "I can't in good conscience ask my men to sacrifice themselves for something that could cause an abomination to rise."

"No one is being sacrificed." The Inquisitor's patience was running thin. "I do not follow your Maker, Commander, and as a mage, I feel I have a better handle on what is going to happen today in the arcane arts. This isn't Kirkwall, Sinead and her former master aren't acolytes of demons, and if we are to prevent this Titus from rising up and becoming another Corypheus, we have to break the bonds that hold him together with that spirit. Now I ask that you get your head out of your arse and look at the situation for what it is and not what you fear it will become. And if you refuse to follow through with your duties, I'll do it myself."

Cullen stared at her a moment, then stepped away.

"I am at your command, Inquisitor," he said stiffly.

"Good. Spread the word among the soldiers - when they see the signal, they make one swift cut to the palm of their hands. Not too deep. If they ask why, tell them it's our own returned signal and they do not need to know more." Her face softened. "Cullen, please trust me. This isn't what you fear."

"Very good, Inquisitor." Refusing to look at her, he bowed and left her tent.

Levellan sighed and sat heavily in the wooden chair set up in front of a makeshift war table and rubbed her temple.

The tent flap lifted, and Josephine entered, looking over her shoulder.

"The Commander does not look pleased. I take it you told him?"

"Yes. And I can't blame him for his reaction." She looked up at the Antivan. "How does one convince a man who saw nearly a whole Circle slaughtered at the hands of blood mages, watched Kirkwall devolve into some sort of hedonistic blood mage haven, that this time it will be different?"

"I believe the answer is you cannot, Inquisitor. But if all goes well, then perhaps..."

"And if all does not go well?" Levellan lifted herself out of her chair. "Don't answer that. Is the honor guard prepared?"

"Yes. And we've received word back from Vir Arlathan. They are ready to receive us."

"Very well."

The Inquisitor adjusted the buttons on her dress reds and nodded. She left the tent with Josephine into the composed chaos of an army camp. Soldiers were running about, doing their morning duties as their superior officers looked on. The sounds of blades being sharpened and armor being cinched into place echoed over the tents. A group of people and horses were gathered nearby - her hand-chosen escort of Dorian, Krem, and the Qunari woman Tal-Ashkaari. She wanted to keep anyone else who had no experience with Titus a safe distance from the madman. The only person who insisted on coming along to parlay with the Council of Vir Arlathan was Josephine.

"What is the point of having a diplomatic ambassador if you do not use me in all moments of diplomacy? And as for the danger, I would remind you that I have played the Game, Inquisitor. I am no novice to danger."

Levellan found that she could not find a good reason to disagree.

Eluard was also among them, talking with Dorian and Krem. He glanced her way and smiled.

"Ah, Inquisitor. Good morning to you, my lady." He clapped his hands. "The day of reckoning, eh? I admit to being a bit nervous. Never had to go into battle before, so to speak."

"In all your years, you've never been in battle?" The Inquisitor grinned. "I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, skirmishes, of course," the mage said with a shrug, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "And plenty of fights with Titus over the years. Threw myself at some darkspawn once or twice. But understand that the only person at risk was me in those spats. All of this -" he waved to the Inquisition encampment, "- not to mention the lives of your companions, and my apprentice, well. Makes things more personal, makes winning more important, doesn't it?"

Her grin dropped. She looked over the soldiers. "Yes, it does. Are you confident in our success?"

"Absolutely not. I learned years ago that overconfidence has a habit of getting people killed. But I'm not afraid that we shall fail, either. So that's something." He took a deep breath through his nose. "When the gates are open, I'll be through them like a shot and headed toward the temple as fast as I can. I don't want Titus anywhere near your soldiers - it would be a slaughter."

"And you won't simply come through with us?"

He laughed. "My dear, it's taking all my will to make sure Titus does not sense me. If I cross through his last wards that encompass the city, he'll know I'm here and the game will be up. We need to ensure that Sinead and Cole make it to the city gate, else we put together this little to-do for nothing."

"And you're absolutely sure you don't want me to just...open a rift inside him and break him apart?"

"And have bits and pieces of him regenerating inside the Fade? Oh, yes, that surely won't cause a terrible nightmare situation," Dorian quipped.

"The young man is right, my lady. This plan is best. It's complicated, but necessary, if you want to take out Titus's power. Now, sit still a moment, all of you." Eluard took a knife from his belt, made a quick cut on his wrist, and, eyes glowing red, waved a hand over the Inquisitor and each member of her entourage. "There we are. That mental barrier should hold long enough for you to get in and out of the city. He'll be suspicious that he can't hear you, but hopefully he won't attribute it to me until it's time."

A runner came up to Josephine and handed her a note, which she read quickly.

"My lady, they are opening the gates for us," she said, looking up from the note.

"The story is finally at a climax, then." Tal-Ashkaari placed a hand on the nose of her horse. "We are to confront the villain of the tale."

"Let's hope it's not a tragedy," Dorian said.

Levellan shrugged. "We've faced worse. Can't possibly be as difficult as Corypheus, can it?"

"All right." Krem mounted up. "Let's go meet the bastard and wreck house."

The five rode through the city gates, aware of the many archers on the walls pointing their drawn bows in their direction. A tall elf in bright green and blue robes on a white horse met them past the gate. He nodded to them without speaking, then turned his horse and kicked it into a walk. They followed him down a wide boulevard lined with brightly dressed people.

The people were gawping. It was the only word the Inquisitor could think of to describe their stunned, frightened, intrigued faces.

"I imagine this is the first time most of them have ever seen humans," Dorian murmured. "Let alone a Qunari or an elf with a vallaslin."

"This place gives me the creeps," Krem said with a frown. "You ever see a city this clean?"

"Yes." Tal-Ashkaari was staring at the people, the buildings, the side streets. "I see no evidence of an underclass. Which means either they do not exist, like in Par Vollen, or -"

"- or they're all underclass," Levellan finished. Her lips pursed together. The city was beautiful, but in a way that felt strangely false. And the fear of the people was nearly palpable. She wondered if this was how Cole felt emotions, or if she was simply picking up on the populace's body language. She agreed with Krem - Vir Arlathan was creepy, bright costumes notwithstanding.

They passed a large marble structure with a golden dome that had eight statues holding up he roof, like columns, just as was described in her reports from Leliana. It took her a moment to realize that the statues were of the elven pantheon - she was so used to the rougher representations of the gods the Dalish created that the beautiful, muscled bodies and blank, staring faces were nearly unrecognizable to her. It was their traditional tools and animal familiars that allowed her to pick out which god was who - Dirthamen and his ravens, Sylaise and her loom, Ghilan'nain and her halla, and so on. No Fen'Harel, however, which she found strange. Every elf she ever knew aside from Sera, even the city elves, made sure to include Fen'Harel, if only to avoid his notice of his absence.

She put this in the back of her mind as they continued to a large palace that stood at the end of the boulevard. It was a central structure, gated and rising five stories above the city, with two main wings and even towers at the ends of each wing. Like something from a fantasy. It clicked then in Levellan's mind - the whole of Vir Arlathan, from its streets to its temple to its palace, was built like a story, a tale, the vision of a city in fiction. She was uneasy as they passed through the palace gates. In her experience, it was difficult to force the delusional to let go of their dreams, no matter how mad. This was not going to be an easy fight.

The Inquisitor and her escort dismounted with their guide, and were led into a grand, empty foyer and made to wait.

"I've never been anywhere this openly, starkly ostentatious, and I've seen both the Winter Palace  _and_ some of the best homes of Tevinter," Dorian murmured, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. "You think he's compensating for something?"

"I'd ask that you hold in your critiques, Master Pavus," Josephine said primly. "We are now guests of another city. Indeed, another culture. No matter what we see, we cannot judge, lest we sour negotiations before they even take place."

"Oh, is that what we're here for? Negotiations?" Dorian smiled.

"Yes, that is what we're here for," Josephine replied firmly. "That and  _nothing else_."

"As you say, Lady Montilyet."

Their guide returned, gave them a curt nod, and led them into a long, open hall lined with tiered seating. The seats were filled of well-dressed men and women who stared down at the Inquisitor and her entourage with disdain as they walked the tiled floor to the head of the room. A golden throne stood on a dais, and in that throne, dressed in simple robes, sat Titus. The guide motioned for them to stop in front of the dais. Then he bowed low to Titus and took a seat in the tiers.

"Hello, Inquisitor. Welcome to the Council of Vir Arlathan," Titus said calmly, a smile playing on his lips. "I would say that it is good to see you again, but as you can imagine I am less than pleased that you have brought your army to my doorstep."

"That is nowhere near my full force, Titus."

"You will address the prophet as Your Grace!" someone called out from the tiers.

Levellan arched a brow. "A prophet, are you? I did not know there were prophets for the gods."

"Only because the time has not yet come for their message to spread throughout the world, Inquisitor." His smile grew. "It is good to know that you still follow the gods. I had thought, given your title, you had taken up with the false religion of Andraste."

"I follow my feet more than any particular god," she said amicably. "As I was saying, Your Grace, the soldiers outside your gate represent only a fraction of my forces. I brought them with me merely as a...show of strength, if you will. I have no intention of using them against your fair city."

"Ah, a show of strength." Titus leaned forward. "Are you trying to intimidate me, Inquisitor?"

Josephine stepped forward. "If you please, Inquisitor?" Levellan nodded. "Your Grace, this 'show of strength' is not for intended for you. Rather, it is aimed at the others who have positioned themselves beyond your wards."

Titus frowned as the Council erupted into quiet muttering.

"I have heard nothing of another army, madam -"

"Lady Josephine Montilyet, Your Grace. If it pleases you." Josephine gave a quick curtsy. "And I assume you have heard nothing because you are not the only one capable of creating wards to hide from skrying. Further, the Anders are well known for there skills at keeping hidden in the hills of the Hunterhorn Mountains."

"Pardon me." One of the Council members stood up from her chair. "Who are these 'Anders' who threaten our city? I've never heard of such a people before."

Josephine did well hiding her surprise, the Inquisitor thought.

The Ambassador bowed toward the Council member who spoke. "My lady, Vir Arlathan and the surrounding land sits in a fertile valley within the Hunterhorn mountains. This mountain range, in turn, is within the borders of the Anderfels, a large, proud country whose sovereignty is recognized by every country in Thedas, as well as Par Vollen." Josephine turned back to Titus. "Essentially, Vir Arlathan is a city of squatters. Or so the Anders say." Again their was muttering from the Council members, angry muttering. "Understand, the Anderfels has very little arable land. When they heard of this valley, they were adamant that it be returned to the Anders."

"Nonsense." Titus's voice echoed through the hall, silencing the mutters. "Vir Arlathan has existed for more than four centuries without any coming to claim the land but the elves whom I brought with me to found the settlement and the elves whom my people have converted to our path of light."

"It is as His Grace says," a man called out. "The gods protect us from the gaze of the outside world."

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but that is not exactly true," Josephine said slowly.

"It's more than that. It's a blatant lie," the Inquisitor added, her words heavy with disdain. "When you first visited the Inquisition, and then after our  _explosive_ meeting, my people were very intrigued by you and your odd obsession with my Lady Archivist, Your Grace. You were made even more intriguing by the fact that you are a difficult man to find. However, look around enough, and the evidence is there."

"The Anders keep a very good record of their history," Josephine continued. "Due to their lack of land, more than one expedition has been sent out to find productive farmland for the people. The Hunterhorns have been a part of those expeditions. Strangely enough, every expedition that has made its way in the direction of Vir Arlathan in the last four hundred years has disappeared without a trace. The last major expedition was just eight years ago, soon after the Blight - the Anders considered setting aside land for Fereldens who had lost their own."

"We have never seen evidence these expeditions," Titus said with a smile. "Are you claiming that we had anything to do with their disappearances?"

"Not we, no. But the Anders..."

"And the Nevarrans," the Inquisitor cut in. "And the Antivans, the Orlesians, the Fereldens. Even the Rivaini, when they heard of both Vir Arlathan and the way any who dare wander into its boundaries tend to disappear, attributed it to the Vir Arlathanians. Very dangerous to be a small city state deemed a threat by every major power in Thedas. All have agreed to stand with the Anders if they make a move against you."

The Council members were silent, shocked. Titus's lips thinned, and his nose flared.

"We were considered a threat by no one until recently, for no one knew of our existence," he hissed. "How dare the Inquisition threaten our very survival as a people by telling the world where we are. I have been careful, for the sake of my people, to keep us hidden away, and now you tell me that the world would destroy what I have built."

"Please, Your Grace, you misunderstand us." Josephine held up her hands. "We did inform the world of your existence, but not in an effort to break down this noble endeavor. A land where elves rule, secluded, without threatening her neighbors? Such a thing has not been seen since the Dalish kingdom, and even then the land was not without war. We felt duty bound to tell the world, for the benefit of the elves who still wander the continent, and for the people who fight for the equal rights of elves in each nation."

"Why should we care for the elves who have not found their way to Vir Arlathan?" one of the Council members shouted. "You have doomed us out of consideration for apostates!"

"I doomed no one," the Inquisitor snapped. "If you have not noticed, I am also an elf, good sir. And I have no intention of seeing the only successful elven city in centuries be brought down by any power. I am the Inquisitor, called Herald of Andraste by many, friend of the Divine Victoria, and I will pull every string, call in every favor and have my soldiers stand against invaders if I have to to ensure the safety of this city."

The Council quieted at her words. She took a breath and steadied herself.

Titus narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his throne. "A strong proclamation, Inquisitor. But I assume it does not come without concessions."

She smiled. "A few, yes. I have had my people study Vir Arlathan for a few weeks now, Your Grace. I'm not exactly thrilled by what they've found."

"Before we discuss that," Josephine said, raising her voice slightly. "You currently have two of our number in captivity within these very walls. We would like them released to us, if you please."

Titus's brows twitched. "The boy you can have. He is here at my granddaughter's behest. My granddaughter, however, has no intention of leaving."

"Does she not?" The Inquisitor stared him down. "I'd like to hear so from her own lips."

"As you wish, Inquisitor. My granddaughter was to be a part of this meeting and is running a bit late." He pointed to the runner who led the Inquisitor to the palace. "Go to the lady Sinead and tell her we await her presence in the Council Hall. She will no doubt hurry her preparations if she hears that a special request has been made by her former Inquisitor."

The man nodded and ran off.

"I assure you, my lady, my granddaughter is here of her own free will. She has recognized her place in the city and wishes to fulfill her destiny among her people."

"We shall see if this is so when she arrives." The Inquisitor nodded to Josephine.

"Our second request, Your Grace, is one we feel is necessary before the Inquisition can ally themselves with Vir Arlathan." Josephine's voice became smooth, soothing. "We are aware that you have been the supreme leader of the city since it's founding. However, it seems that your...skill set is better directed toward the spiritual life of the populace rather than the day to day operations of a small municipality."

"Get to the point, Lady Montilyet," Titus said impatiently.

Josephine lifted her head. "Very well. How many times has your council been purged over the last four centuries, Your Grace? And how many uprisings have you brutally quelled?"

The Council broke out into muttering once again. Titus smiled tightly.

"There is no evidence of such events in our city. We are a peaceful people."

"Then you are not aware of the secret histories that float among the underground dissident groups of Vir Arlathan? To date we have recorded three such groups that keep in contact with each other, and the histories they repeat are damning. Fourteen Council purges, the last one a mere fifty years ago, which would explain the general youth of your current council members. An uprising an average of every...sixty or so years? Just enough time for a generation to be raised believing in your rule and their children to rankle under it." Josephine looked around the hall. "In fact, based on what our people have discovered, you are rather overdue for another uprising. In the world of statescraft, this is not exactly a successful regime, Your Grace."

Titus stood. His eyes flashed with fury. "So you would have me step down. Me, the prophet of the gods? Or you will allow the Anders and the Nevarrans and whoever else to come and crush my city? Is this what you're suggesting, my lady? Inquisitor?"

"It's not a suggestion," the Inquisitor said coolly. "It's a demand. Step down, Titus, and allow your Council to run the city of its own accord. And then we will tell the Anders to step away and leave you be. Otherwise, we will withdraw, and you can deal with the consequences, come what may."

The hall went silent, as if none in the Council dare speak after this threat. The Inquisitor's heart was racing. There was nothing but pure murder in Titus's gaze. She hoped that she had not pushed him too far, pushed him to attack her and the rest of the entourage - it would help no one if she became a smear on the tile.

Suddenly, four young women appeared from a side door near the dais, where the runner had disappeared. They were disheveled, hair falling from braids, clothes ripped and wet. One of them, a small woman who wore a large gold medallion, ran up the stairs of the dais and curtsied deeply in front of the glaring Titus. She whispered something too low for anyone but he to hear. His eyes widened.

"What?" He snarled.

The young woman quailed. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I -"

He waved his hand. The girl choked for an instant, grabbed her chest, and fell into her full skirts, dead. Someone in the Council tiers screamed in agony.

"Compose yourself, you stupid woman!" Titus growled. "Your daughter failed me, Afanen. Her life was forfeit. Council members, leave us. Now."

The Council members fled the hall in a great, pushing, silent crowd, all wishing to escape the wrath of their prophet. Titus pulled a wooden whistle on a small gold chain out from under his collar and blew into it. A high-pitched shriek echoed through the hall. A cacophony of wings filled the room as dozens of birds of every size flew down from the rafters of the hall.

"I had not noticed them up there before," Tal-Ashkaari said, paling. "What -"

She did not have time to ask the question. The birds circled the Inquisitor's entourage, and as each creature landed on the tile, it shifted into an elf robed in black.

"I suspect these are the Ravens," the Inquisitor muttered. She shifted into a fighting stance.

Titus walked quickly down the dais stairs, barely looking at the Inquisitor or her people.

"Kill them," he said dismissively. "I don't have time to deal with this farce any longer."

"Your Grace! Titus! If I do not return to my camp, a message will be sent to the Anders -"

Titus turned on his heel. "I care not about the Anders!" He roared. "If any army dare approach my city, I will destroy them! Just as I will kill every man and woman you have camped outside my gates! You will not succeed in taking the girl from me!"

He disappeared through the side door. The Ravens, as one person, unhooked their staffs from their backs.

"Surround Josephine," the Inquisitor said quickly as she unhooked her own staff, pulling the ambassador behind her and throwing a barrier over everyone. Krem, Dorian and Tal-Ashkaari obeyed, Dorian and Krem drawing their weapons, Tal-Ashkaari leveling her spear toward the mages.

A young man in a tight ponytail stepped forward.

"Ravens," he said in a calm voice. "Sahlin."

Half of the elven mages turned abruptly on their peers, and in a great flash of power and fire and lightning and ice, executed the other half before they had a chance to act. When the haze of power cleared, the marble tile was littered with bodies, and parts of bodies, and blood spatter.

"Maker's breath," Josephine squeaked, covering her mouth in shock and squinching her eyes shut.

The young man who spoke approached the Inquisitor slowly, hands raised in front of him.

"I greet you without malice, Inquisitor. I am Neirin, second in command of the resistance." He nodded at one of the other turncoat mages. "Go to the temple. Tell them it is time."

The mage nodded and transformed, then flew off up into the rafters.

"I have had dealings with Sinead and her escort, Cole," Neirin continued. "Neither told me what exactly your people plan to do with Titus or Vir Arlathan, but  _we_ can wait no longer for revolution."

"Fair enough." The Inquisitor kept her staff drawn. "You don't mind if we leave you now, I hope?"

Neirin gave her a nod. "As you wish, Inquisitor. Harm not any who do not attack you first, and you will be safe from us."

Bells reverberated through the city. A cry rose from the streets. The Inquisitor returned Neirin's nod and turned to her entourage.

"Josephine, stay here, and stay safe. The rest of you, let's go. It's time to take down the tyrant."


	33. Place Setting

The message came by arrow, just as the sun was setting and a glare of bright light washed over the palace courtyard. The arrow flew through a gap in the stone lattice window and buried itself into the door with a hard thunk.

Cole jumped up from the floor and quickly pried the arrow out of the door, slid a bit of paper off its shaft and pushed the arrow through the window. He was back on the floor when the guard opened his door, took a look around, shrugged, and closed it again.

When he was sure that the guard had no interest in him, he unrolled the scrap of paper, and in the dying light he read –

_Est. arrival time, tonight, under cover of darkness. Come when both moons set, near dawn. Lower halls, cistern entrance behind kitchen. I'll be waiting. – C._

A small smile played on his lips. He climbed up onto the bed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to sleep so that he'd be sharp the next day. He did not mind sleep so much – it was one of the less annoying aspects of humanity, and it felt rather nice, though he felt as if he lost quite a bit of time while he waited in the Fade for his body to have its rest. But he did think it strange that without enough sleep, his mind and his body began communicating back and forth like two people at the top of two hills separated by a valley screaming at each other.

Luckily he fell asleep quickly, and found himself in the empty, gray city that Purpose had built, avoiding the dazed dreamers. However, something felt different – indeed, the fact that he felt anything at all from another lucid being was different. He could feel Purpose's presence pulsating throughout the city, of course, maintaining his hold over this portion of the Fade. But there was another nearby, and whoever it was exuded a sense of nervousness that worried him. He drifted toward the new presence, curious, winding around the buildings until he reached the end of the city and the beginnings of the raw, untamed Fade beyond. It was an area also bereft of spirits due to the itchy "keep out" ness of the empty city.

In a wide plain of orange and silver grasses punctuated by thick, black rock spires, Wisdom sat, hands moving over each other twitchily. Cole's eyes widened in surprise. He looked back at the city, listened to Purpose's pulse for a moment to make sure that there was no change in his rhythm, then walked slowly to the spirit, keeping his hands in front of him. She felt his approach, and looked up at him with a shaky smile.

"It is lovely to see you again, little one, though I rather wish it wasn't in this sharp, hissing place." Her eyes would not stay still, and she kept glancing around as if expecting something vicious to spring from behind one of the spires. "He's dampened the dreamers, forcing them to feel what he feels rather than allowing them to shape the land."

"I know. They walk around dead-eyed. They don't dream like other people. I don't think they can."

"What a dreadful, egotistical beast." Wisdom sniffed huffily. "What makes him think he can bully us like that?"

Cole shrugged. "He's been in the real world for a long time. No one's challenged him here or there and succeeded. And he has Titus caught up in a tight, clawed fist. They forget who is one and who is the other."

"Well, Eluard's odd plot better work, because this place needs to change. Needs to heal."

He sat down next to her. "Why are you here? You're not a fighter."

"Wisdom cannot fight, but Compassion can? Unacceptable." Wisdom stilled her fidgeting. "Eluard asked for help hiding his companions and the soldiers from Purpose until the time is right. I agreed that it would be wise to do so, given this Purpose's volatile nature. However, it's been…difficult. Purpose reaches out with black tendrils, searching for interlopers. I have been hopping around this desolate place for longer than long."

Cole's heart tightened. He took Wisdom's hand.

"When you let go, and his tendrils no longer slip over the soldiers, you must run. Run fast. He'll kill you if he catches you."

"I am aware," she said gravely. "I did not agree to help without knowing the risks, little one." She glanced over her shoulder. "The dawn is near. It is nearly over. I promise, I'll fly to Peace's garden as if carried by a high wind."

He relaxed. "Good." He tensed again. "Did you say near dawn?"

He pushed his way out of sleep, coming back to himself so quickly that he was disoriented for a moment. The room was dark, almost too dark to see a hand in front of his face. He rolled off his bed, still blurry, stuck his hand inside the mattress and pulled out the lock picking tools. He crawled to the door, felt at it blindly until he found the lock, then felt through the tools until he found the ones with his fingers that he knew would work. Careful to keep the lock from clicking too loudly, he worked it until the tumblers moved easily and the latch was freed.

He stood, tucking all but one of his tools away in his belt. Then, holding his breath, he pulled the door open, hiding behind it as it slowly swung into the wall.

"What – Leolin, get over here! Something's wrong with the escort's door."

Cole stayed silent as the guards warily entered the room, chainmail slinking against their drawn blades.

"He's gone," one of them whispered. "You think the stories are true? He was really a phantom made by the Aggressor?"

"Can't believe you'd buy into that drivel," the other scoffed. "Just because the Ravens had trouble with him doesn't mean he's some mage's familiar. Look under the bed. I'll –"

As the guard reached for the door handle, Cole yanked the door away, throwing the guard off balance, then slammed the door into the guard's head. The guard stumbled back into his companion, who shouted out in pain as the first guard's sword grazed his leg. They both fell against the bed as Cole slipped around the door and slammed it shut, jamming his tool into the lock and twisting it until he heard a click and a snap as the tool broke.

The minds he had floated through for weeks had given him a sense of the palace layout. He ran with confidence in his direction, feeling out for other guards in the prison corridors. The way was clear as he turned a corner, crossed a hallway and ran down a flight of stairs. He stopped suddenly at the last stair, nearly falling out into the lower floor's corridor before catching himself against the doorframe. A guard plodded past the stairwell door, yawning and not paying attention to his peripherals. Cole held his breath until he was sure that the guard would not see him. Then he sprinted the opposite direction from the guard, around a corner and toward a flight of stairs that led to the kitchens.

He felt another guard before he saw him, and made a split-second decision before the guard appeared at the top of the stairs. He did not slow his speed as the guard caught sight of him, and while the guard was still opening his mouth to call out an alarm, Cole barreled into him. They rolled down the stairs together, Cole keeping his head and limbs tucked in as the guard clanged before him. He landed hard on the guard's unconscious body, then staggered to his feet and ran on.

The kitchens were silent, the lesser staff not yet awake to light the fires and prepare for the day. He stopped to steal an apple from a large barrel in the corner. It had been a long time since he had eaten anything but unknowable stew. He took a bite, taking a moment to revel in the flavor of the apple – Varric was right, a good apple tasted of chartreuse. Then he ran on, through the kitchens and the storage rooms, down a dank flight of stairs that dripped with condensation.

He stopped in front of an old, rotting door, surprised to be the first to arrive. Charter was punctual – she prided herself on it. Perhaps he had escaped too soon. He finished the apple as he waited, spinning the core between his fingers. He tensed at a sound, the sound of someone being silent. Again he felt the whispering mind of Charter as she approached and marveled at how she naturally kept her thoughts small and secret. She crept from the shadows, like a cat on the hunt.

"You're early." She did not sound pleased. "Either you're as quick as they say, or you left your room long enough ago that they've already sent out an alarm."

Cole cocked his head, listening. "The guard from the stairs is still unconscious. They think he fell on his own. The other two are trapped in my cell. No one's heard them yet."

"Hm. Took out three guards on your own without weapons? Perhaps you are as good as they say. You sure no one important knows you're missing yet?"

He nodded. "It's all wrapped up in their feelings – liked the guards in my cell. They're worried they'll get in trouble, which they will. I hope they aren't hurt – they're not bad men, just unknowing."

"Interesting. We could use that when – well, shouldn't get ahead of ourselves." She tossed a pack at him. "Dress quickly. Lesser staff should wake soon, and you need to blend in."

He pulled a bright red tunic and silky trousers from the pack, along with a pair of gold slippers, a gold cap, and his blades.

"You found my knives," he said, delighted.

"Amazing what they have in that confiscation room upstairs. Could have snagged some very nice things, if that was my way. Even found that floppy nightmare you insult other hats with by calling it a hat."

His excitement grew. He thought his hat was gone for good, tossed away when the guards stole it from his head. "Where is it?"

"Tucked away safe. You're not wearing that _thing_ right now. Now hurry up and dress, we're running out of time."

"I like my hat," he muttered, but he obeyed, tearing off his old tunic and replacing it with the garish red one, then shoving his legs into the billowy trousers and slipping on the shoes. His feet felt odd – it had been more than a month since he had worn anything but stockings on them.

"Right, turn around and kneel."

He complied, and Charter roughly yanked his shag into a short ponytail, then shoved the cap onto his head so that it covered his ears.

"Okay, let's see you – you're a little tall for an elf lad, but it'll do. You've got the lankiness, at least." She pulled a bucket full of water and suds out of the shadows and handed it and a brush to him. "Go ahead and put your knives in this until you need them."

"I don't understand. Why am I dressed like this? I can fetch Sinead away without these clothes."

"Listen greenhorn, I've been told that you're good at hiding so that none can see you." She prodded his chest with her middle and index finger. "Today you're going to learn how to hide in plain sight. Your girl's apartments are surrounded by guards in one of the poshest wings of the palace. Maybe you can slink your way to her door without drawing an alarm, but it'll take time and effort and probably lives, which will cause a panic we don't need. It'll be much easier to get close if you assume the identity of someone too unimportant to need watching. Understand?"

Cole nodded slowly.

"Good. Then until you need to draw your blades, you're not Cole. You're Owain, floor scrubber. Better use that name well – it was my father's. Make sure you scrub the floors all the way to your girl's room. Make it real until you don't need it anymore." She sniffed and crossed her arms. "Battleground's at the temple. It's –"

"I know where the temple is," he said quickly.

"How in the void do you know where the temple is? You've been on lockdown for weeks."

"Because I know."

"Well, make sure your girl also knows," she said, disgruntled. "She's the one doing the main battling, after all. Now, go. I'll see you when this is over."

She nodded and slid away to the shadows.

Cole carefully placed his knives into the wooden bucket, then let the brush sink in after them, hiding the glint of the blades.

* * *

Cole kept his head down, carried his bucket through the kitchens where the scullery maids now worked the bellows as they yawned, walked through the halls and up flights of stairs to the main corridors of the palace, and began scrubbing the stone floors. No one glanced twice at him, no one suspected that he was out of place. He could feel the beginnings of a commotion over his disappearance, but even though the guards were now searching every floor, no one considered the young man on his knees covered in soap scum at the end of the main hallway.

It did not surprise him that Charter's plan worked – he was used to helping the people no one else noticed. But he still wondered what the point of it was. It was not the rough work he minded, as he'd done far more difficult jobs before. It simply seemed a waste of time crawling toward Sinead's rooms inch by inch rather than quickly stealing to her door, taking care of any guards on duty together, and running off to the city gates.

And then, he felt it – the eyes on him as he crept closer to the palace suites. He glanced up, then quickly looked back down at the stone, vigorously scrubbing at the mortar. The rafters were covered in birds of all types, and all had sentient minds – cool, calculating minds, like the mind of the woman he killed on the Silent Plains. And he realized what Charter meant by "guards all around your girl." He resigned himself to his slow approach, keeping his head clear and his eyes and ears open.

Slowly the hours passed, and the sun began to rise. His knees ached, and his hands were pruned, and the water had gone gray. But he did not dare run back to the kitchens for more water, in case the people who actually paid attention to who scrubbed the floors found him out as a fake. As the first beams of sunlight streamed through the palace windows, Cole reached the corridor where Sinead was held.

He could feel Sinead within, awake and blocking her thoughts, though flickers of irritation and boredom managed to escape from time to time. He could also feel four others, more cold, calculating minds to match the ones above his head. He slowed his pace, thinking through what to do next. He would have to find a way into her rooms, tuck himself away, wait until the right moment…

And then, Titus was there, passing through the hall like a storm cloud, dashing all thoughts but "hide" from Cole's mind. He ducked his head down and focused on the stone he was scrubbing. Titus unlocked the door to Sinead's apartments and walked in without announcement. Soon, the four calculating minds retreated from the room in a flurry of skirts. They waited in the corridor, exchanging dark looks with each other and the eyes above. Cole noticed that one of the women had Sinead's knife tucked in her belt. It was not very happy about the situation.

Something unpleasant was happening in the rooms. He could feel anger, rage, pain and the briefest glint of triumph. And then Titus appeared again at the door. He looked up at the rafters.

"Six of you, stay. Kill any who approach this door. The rest of you, to the Council Hall. We need to greet Andraste's Inquisitor." He flicked a finger at the four skirts. "Clean her up and get her ready. I want her to be on full display for the Inquisitor's _pleasure_."

The four skirts curtsied and returned to the rooms as Titus stormed off, followed by the feathery flurry of most of the birds. When the corridor was clear, Cole glanced up at the six who were left behind. Four were cold-minded – but two of them were masked with that strange, wooden loyalty that he had noticed throughout the city.

It was always the same sensation whenever he knew he'd have to fight – his mind _changed_. All the free floating thoughts and feelings that made him who he was would suddenly center on the situation, scrutinizing his possible steps for the skirmish. _If six enemies, then a possibility of success in a battle, quick steps, too fast for the magic radiating from them – trained magic, but not subtle, not honed. Something else though, something deadly, like assassins, that same sense of steps, the dance of death, must be careful…_

He slid the bucket over the stones to the door, slowly scrubbing after it with his head down, listening to the cold minds consider whether or not he was worth the effort to kill. They fluffed their feathers, shared looks, argued silently. One of them made a decision. A small black bird with a red breast dived from the rafters. As he flew, he shifted, his body growing and contorting quickly into the shape of a robed man.

Cole could feel the transformation, the strangeness of it, heard the shivering sound of steel being drawn from the man's belt. Before the man's feet touched the stone, Cole quickly grabbed up the bucket and threw its contents at the man. The man threw up his arms to shield himself from the water and Cole's knives, throwing off his timing. He hit the ground hard, dropping to a knee. Before he could recover, Cole bashed him in the head with the bucket with all his might. The man dropped, unconscious, as pieces of the bucket scattered across the stones.

Now there was no argument among the guards, cold-minded or masked. They dived from the rafters as one. Cole threw his brush and managed to knock one of them from the air before he transformed. He fell from the sky as a man, landing lifelessly. Cole did not wait to learn the man's fate, skidding around the stone and grabbing up his knives before the others reached him.

They alighted on the stone, surrounding him, four black-cloaked figures. There was a pause, a moment, as the others drew their weapons. Cole slid his feet apart and leaned forward, taking a breath, listening to the cold, calculating minds.

Then, to his surprise, two of the figures attacked their companions – the masked against the cold-minded. The cold-minded figures were clearly just as surprised as he was. They had no time to defend themselves as lightning flashed and the copper smell of magic filled the air. He jumped away from the fray, and soon it was finished, the masked minds prevailing.

One of them approached him and removed his hood – a ponytailed elf with cool eyes. He smiled and nodded at Cole. Cole frowned and kept his knives drawn. He did not like this man, though he could not tell why through the mask.

"Well met, escort. I wondered who had given the order to scrub the floors on this day, of all days." The man chuckled. "His Grace's true folly is that he does not pay attention to what he thinks should not be there."

Cole did not want to talk to this man. "Are you going to stop me from opening the door?"

"No. In fact, I will stay to ensure your success in rescuing the Lady Sinead."

"Why?"

"Because there are four very talented Ravens attending to her." The man was amused. "They may be a challenge, even for you."

Cole shoved his knives into his belt and pulled out his tools, kneeling in front of the door. "Sinead doesn't need rescuing," he said as he worked. "Not from _them_."

"Oh, the lady is talented – I made the mistake of underestimating her when we fought, and nearly lost my life as a result. But Fion and her friends are incredibly competent."

Cole's agitation grew. He really did not like this man. "You never nearly lost your life," he said shortly, focusing on the lock. "You don't know anything about her. None of you do. _No one_ here pays attention." The lock clicked. Cole pocketed his tools and gave the man a glare. "Don't follow me."

The man raised his brows and held up his hands. "As you wish, escort."

Cole nodded and slipped through the door, closing it carefully behind him. He looked around the frilly, lavish sitting room with a frown. It was permeated with the sense of suffocation, and worse, it smelled of lavender and vanilla so strongly that he nearly sneezed.

Something glass shattered in one of the rooms beyond. He ducked close to the wall by the doorway from which the sound came, listening to the fight that followed.

"I said, don't touch me," Sinead snapped. "I won't tell you again."

"My lady, we mustn't keep His Grace waiting," one of the skirts said in a cloyingly sweet voice. But her mind was reds and blacks, blood and death held in check by obligation. "You have the honor of attending a Council meeting. You cannot very well join them in your petticoats."

"Fion, my lady is upset," another of the skirts said. "She's in quite a state. My lady, you have been dutiful from the moment you entered the palace. Surely one show of… _disappointment_ from His Grace is not enough to end your good behavior."

Sinead gave a sharp laugh. A tinkling cascade of shattering glass followed. "If he wants to parade me in front of the Inquisitor, he'll have to drag me there himself."

"Make no mistake, we will call him back." Fion's voice was firm.

"Oh, will you? I wonder how he'll take the news that you could not control me. That won't be very good for you, will it, Fion?"

The hairs on the back of Cole's neck rose, and the metallic smell of magic filled the air. Red filled Fion's head. He drew his blades, prepared to swing around the door with knives spinning, but hesitated – the timing did not feel right. A few more moments…

"I was told I could use any means to make you comply, my lady." Fion's voice was sweet once more. "I did hope that I would not have to resort to –"

Fion gasped.

"You used a paralysis spell that simplistic?" Sinead sounded scornful, almost insulted. "You people really do have a low opinion of me. I've had enough of this farce."

There was a crackle and girlish screeches. A cool breeze wafted through the doorway.

"Shit!" Sinead cried.

A small yellow bird zoomed into the sitting room, pumping her tiny wings as she flew in the direction of the fireplace. She was so focused on her flight that she did not notice Cole. Neither did Sinead. She ran into the sitting room, waving her hand at the bird, quickly building cages of ice in the air in an attempt to trap her. The bird was too quick, flitting under and up and through the twisting ice shards without deviating from her path.

Cole flipped one of his knives, holding the blade by the tips of his fingers, and cocked his head, watching the bird's flight. As she shot up in the air toward an opening in the stone chimney, he threw the knife, startling Sinead enough to make her jump. The blade clipped the bird's wing as it passed her by. She twittered and dropped, transforming back into Fion as she fell into one of the overstuffed chairs. Without hesitation Sinead incased Fion in ice.

Fion struggled in her cold bindings, grunting and shrieking. Cole stepped toward her, picking up his knife, then snaking his hand through the ice shards and wiggling Sinead's knife free from Fion's belt. Fion's eyes widened.

"This isn't yours," he said reproachfully, tucking the sheathed knife in his belt. "It doesn't like you."

"Where did you – guards! Guards!" Fion screamed.

"None of _that_." Sinead waved her hand and Fion's head slumped to the side as she fell into a deep sleep. Sinead nodded and turned to Cole. "So."

For the first time, he saw her face – dark bruises forming around her blood magic-reddened eyes, lip split and bleeding. He let out a breath, walking quickly to her and touching her cheek. A small fire of anger kindled in the pit of his stomach.

She raised a brow, confused. "What? Oh, right." She brushed her fingers over her injuries. "The hallmark of a manipulator who feels control slipping away." Her face glowed green a moment, and her injuries dissipated, the only evidence of Titus's handiwork a thin scar on her bottom lip. The red faded from her eyes. She gave him a lopsided grin. "There, good as new."

Within him something loosened, a rigidity that he had held in his heart the moment he was captured. He gathered her into his arms, lifting her off the ground as he hugged her. Arm around his neck, she hugged him tightly back, kissing his neck and cheek and lips.

"All right, let me down," she said hurriedly. "The sleeping spell won't last forever."

He dropped her back on her feet and she took his hand, pulling him into the bathroom. It was a mess – three women surrounded by icy prisons, sleeping fitfully, glass and brushes and tins scattered across the floor, the mirror on the wall splintered and fragmented. Sinead ignored all this and made for a wardrobe against the far wall, carefully stepping over glass on her bare feet. Cole lifted her by the waist and carried her the rest of the way, careful to place her on a patch of unspoiled tile. She nodded thanks absently and pulled open the doors, pulling voluminous silk dresses from the wardrobe's innards and throwing them to the ground.

"There must be something sensible in here," she muttered. "Get me out of this ridiculous underwear while I look."

As she searched the wardrobe, Cole drew his knife and cut through the stays of the pink bodice synched around her middle, pulling the stiff fabric from her and tossing it over his shoulder. Then he crouched, cut into the top of her petticoats and ripped them away one by one, leaving her with nothing on but a sheer silk top and thin silk bloomers. His hands were shaking by the time he was finished. He wanted very much to reach out and run a hand up her leg to –

He took a breath and stood, then took off his garish tunic and pulled it over her head.

She turned, pulling her dead hand through its armhole. "I'm fairly sure your boring white shirt will be a novelty to these people, but this will have to work. Is the way clear?"

"Yes." He crossed the room and stole the slippers from one of the sleeping maidens, then crossed back, glass crunching under his feet, and placed the slippers in front of her. "Everyone important is at the Council meeting. Everyone unimportant won't care about us."

"Wonderful. Brilliant. Fantastic." She shoved her feet in the slippers. "Let's get out of this madhouse."

They sprinted through the bathing room and sitting room. Cole carefully opened the door. The ponytailed elf and his companion were still in the hallway, standing over the ashes of what had been four dead men. Sinead peeked through the door, then pushed her way through, slipping under Cole's arms.

"What are you doing here, Neirin?" she hissed.

"Making sure you're out of the palace before the Inquisitor arrives," Neirin said languidly, smiling. "It took quite a bit of effort to convince the head of the resistance that you cannot die. I had to promise that you would not be here to interfere as we move forward with our plans."

"You aren't still going to try to kill Titus, are you?" she gave him a critical look. "It will be like throwing grapes against a boulder if you try."

"We think ridding Vir Arlathan of Titus's supporters will be enough of a challenge for us. Take care of Titus, and we will take care of the people."

Cole felt an edge of cruelty in his smile.

"You'll be no better than him, if you think of people like that," he said, the words tumbling from him. "Afraid followers will falter under the new rule. Everyone a possible traitor."

Neirin's smile slipped. He narrowed his eyes. "You know nothing of this place. The people have been cowed for too long. They need to be guided to a new way of thinking."

"Guided or driven? They're cowed but they aren't cattle."

Neirin's mask slipped slightly, and a wave of incredible anger washed over Cole. The elf's eyes flashed.

"Sers, I'd love to stand around in the middle of the hallway and argue about how to rule Vir Arlathan without Titus, but at the moment the man is still very much in power." Sinead pulled at Cole's arm. "We need to go. Now."

"Wait." Cole snatched the hat from the other robed elf's head and shoved it over Sinead's curls, making sure it hid her ears. "Okay." He gave Neirin one last look. "Be better than him. They're people. Not tools, not animals, not weapons."

"I'll keep that in mind," Neirin said stiffly. He nodded at Sinead. "Good luck my lady." He and his companion took to the air, transforming and flitting away.

* * *

They made their way to the lower levels of the palace, keeping their pace slow and their heads down. Sinead followed behind him, keeping close and letting him lead her through the now bustling kitchens.

"Pretend that you belong," he whispered as he walked.

He picked up two buckets, handing one to her. The cooks and maids scurrying about, beating dough and mixing ingredients in bowls and checking the ovens and the fires, barely glancing their way. They exited the kitchens into a sunny, late spring day, passing the laundresses and animal tenders and garden hands that populated the less lush areas of the palace grounds.

The guards still searched for him, and had fanned out onto the palace grounds, checking the scrub bushes and stables and sheds. They paid no attention to Cole or Sinead, though Sinead was right – Cole's white shirt stood out among the bright greens and blues and pinks and yellows and so on that the servants wore. But his sleeves were grimy and his knees were damp and stained, and he had a bright cap upon his head. It was enough for eyes to pass over him without noticing him.

They reached the servant's side entrance at the palace wall, which was guarded by three men. Cole slowed his pace.

"They won't let us pass," he murmured, reaching for one of his knives. "They're not allowed to let anyone leave until they find me."

"Wait." Sinead slipped the bucket up her arm and twisted her hand. The guards slumped against the wall. "Quickly. I can't keep them asleep for long without blood magic."

They ran to the door, and Cole worked on the lock, hands moving fast as the guards surfaced from sleep. The lock clicked, and as the first guard's eyes started to flutter open, they were through the door and on the streets of Vir Arlathan.

They walked hastily into the crowds lining the main street to the palace. He took her hand, so as to not lose her as they maneuvered around people. He could not help smiling, even knowing that their long day had just begun. He was among people again, hearing both their speech and their feelings, the murmur of many together. And the sun was bright, and the day warm, the smell of was greenery in the air along with the stench of city. And he was touching Sinead again, her hand in his, after weeks of only being able to look at her. All the pain from the cell was gone, the weight of it gone, the –

The murmur in the crowd rose into a worried buzz. Cole stopped and looked over the heads of the Vir Arlathanians. An entourage was riding down the street – the Inquisitor's entourage. He ducked down. Sinead tugged on his hand.

"What's going on?"

"They're here."

"Finally. Let's go!"

Sinead freed her hand, wiggled out of the crowd and broke into a run. Cole caught up with her after weaving around a number of disgruntled elves, then kept pace. They passed the Inquisitor, visible on her horse through the crowd, and continued on, even as Sinead became winded.

"How can you have so much energy?" she gasped, holding her side. "You barely moved for a month!"

"My legs need to go where they need to go," he said with a shrug.

He stopped a moment and took Sinead's arm, pointing at a grand, domed building.

"That's where you have to go, after you send the signal."

"The temple? Oh, goodness. I don't think many of these people will like us taking down their prophet in their house of worship."

They continued on. The crowd dissipated further up the street, the people having seen the strangeness of the Inquisitor's retinue and now needing to go about the business of the day. He stopped Sinead and pulled her down a side street.

"What are you doing? We have to reach the wall," she hissed.

"Not by the main gate. There are cold minds there. They watch from the air."

"Cold…you mean the Ravens? Well, yes, we'll want to avoid _them_."

He took her through strangely clean and open and quiet streets of a residential area. It was unlike any town he had ever been in – no children playing by the gutters, no one talking with their neighbors, no one at home. Everyone had a task to do, and they were at that task. It made him feel sick to his stomach. There were cold minds on patrol. He led Sinead around them, watching the sky for their wings.

Finally, they reached the wall. A cobblestone street separated the houses from the wall, which rose high above the rooftops of the city.

"There's no place to hide," he said, distressed. "They will come for you when you send the signal. I'll stay and –"

"No." Her voice was firm. "The gate must be opened. When they figure out who I am, they will not harm me. And if I have already drawn from the soldiers, I won't let them touch me."

He believed her. He took her knife from his belt and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you ready?"

She eyed the blade. "Do you want to know the truth? I'm never quite prepared for the pain. Not really." She took a deep breath and held it. "Do it."

He hesitated just a moment, then stabbed her in the shoulder, burying the blade deep and holding her as her body curled forward and she hid her face in his chest to muffle her cry. He pulled the blade out slowly, letting her blood coat the weapon.

She straightened and pulled away from him. Her eyes were bright red with power. "Now I'm ready."

He nodded, carefully sheathed the bloody knife, then leaned down and kissed her. She grasped his arm and returned his kiss fervently, and for the first time in a month, she dropped the guard around her mind. He was flooded with her emotions – worry, fear, determination, anger, disgust, excitement, nervousness, panic. And behind all this her love: love for the old master whom she wanted to help right his old sin, love for the mother who hid her away so she would not have to run, love for the man who understood her better than anyone.

He pulled away and curled a finger around a lock of her hair. "I will try not to die."

"Do more than try."

He smiled. "I will do more than try."

He gave her one last quick kiss, then left her, running back into the city toward the waiting gates.


	34. The Battle

Sinead watched Cole disappear down the side streets, a thin aura of green-blue surrounding him as it always did, whether she could see it or not. Her nerves were on fire – this was the moment she and the others planned for, the moment she and Cole had spent months now feinting towards while keeping Titus from figuring out their true intentions. And now, wrapped up in the power of her blood, she hesitated. Once she took power from the soldiers, there would be no turning back.

She took a breath, bolstered herself, and felt out beyond the wall, felt for the pulsing, living beings camped beyond, awaiting orders. Each person she found she held on to, like when she searched Cole's blood for the invaders in its midst, her mind locking on the person and then jumping to another until a great web formed within her mind's eye, linking the soldiers to her. Her thoughts stilled as she worked, every effort focused on finding the soldiers.

When she had over two hundred souls marked, she lifted her hand and sent up a bright red spark. Suddenly, power drained from those marked – the blood from self-inflicted wounds. Quickly she pulled on the power.

Her breath left her.

She was filled with power. Overflowing with power. It was reminiscent of when the Templars poured lyrium into her blood again and again, forcing her mind to break –

She shook her head. This was not like then. She was in control. She had pulled only a small amount from each person, barely enough for them to notice more than a little bit of tiredness. She waited for the voices to begin, the call of the demons to take more, take all for herself. But curiously, almost eerily, no demon came to tempt her. She was alone in her mind, alone in the power, and the only desire she had to avoid was her own.

She wrapped the power around her mana, and pulled away. Then, gently, she sent out a wave of healing, mending the wounds on the soldiers. Finally, she let go of the people beyond the wall and focused her attention on the sky – birds circled overhead, birds that glowed with bright auras. They dived toward her, shifting as they fell into cloaked figures.

She let them surround her, six in all – she wondered if Raven "units" came in sixes. She recognized a few of the faces, men and women whom she had seen exiting Titus's solar on her way to her hateful breakfasts with the man. The Ravens clearly recognized her – they exchanged looks as they realized who she was.

"My lady." One of the figures gave her a slight bow. "We did not know you were in the city. His Grace has said you are not to be outside the palace for your own safety. Please allow us to escort you home."

"The palace is not my home." She smiled. The figures looked uncomfortable – perhaps it was the smile coupled with her reddened eyes. She turned and made a point to look each Raven in the eye. "I will remain here, thank you."

"My apologies, my lady." The first figure jerked his hand out, sending a spell her way.

Before the spell reached her, she wove a barrier out of blood magic. The spell, which smelled of sleep, dissipated within the weave of her shield.

"As I said, I will remain here," she said more firmly. "Please don't make me do more to make you disperse. None of you are at fault for Titus's rule."

"Aeral, go," the first figure snapped as the others pulled their knives on Sinead.

A young woman jumped into the air and shifted into a small ball of feathers. Sinead's heart dropped, but she steeled herself and quickly waved her hand in a large arch. Tight, icy cages formed around every Raven, including the girl in the air. Sinead threw a barrier around the girl as she fell to the earth, still in the form of a bird. The others were building their magic, shifting, creating fire. Sinead tightened the grip of the cages, denying the Ravens movement, then knocked them all into a deep sleep.

She ran, holding on to the sleeping spell as she moved back through the empty residential streets. With the power of the blood, the eeriness of the town became almost unbearable. Everything had an aura when she used blood magic – people, of course, but also animals, and plants, and buildings saturated by the energy of those who lived within them. But the buildings of Vir Arlathan lacked that aura – or, no. There was an aura, but it was thick and _gray_. Like a fog rather than a hint of inner light. It made her shudder.

She made it to the main street as a set of bells began to ring – the Temple bells. The few people still milling about the street looked toward the Temple, confused. The bells only rang on the holy day and for special occasions. Sinead stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the stone façade of a small store. The workers within left the store, muttering to themselves as they stared at the Temple. Suddenly a great explosion ripped through the quiet of the morning. Debris showered upon Sinead and the gawkers. A cloud of dust rose from a few blocks away, like a large grey mushroom against the sky.

"That was the textile guild's tower!" one of the shop clerks said, aghast.

Another explosion rocked the city, and then another, tall buildings falling into heaps of ruin. As the third explosion sounded, Sinead's hold on the six sleeping Ravens broke – not as if they had escaped, but as if they simply no longer _were_. Her blood went cold. Someone had killed them all, one by one, as they slept, defenseless. She began to shake.

She shook her head and gripped her power. She did not have time to lose herself to guilt. She ran for the Temple, avoiding people as they crowded into the street, gaping at the clouds of dust, running toward or away from the palace, calling out names of loved ones. She climbed the stairs and reached the entrance – the doors were closed, even as people pounded on the massive gilt portal, begging for sanctuary.

She tipped her hand and pulled the people away from the door. They tumbled against the stone and against each other.

"Get away from here," she commanded. "This is not a safe place to be. Find your families! Run!"

The elves balked at her appearance, her deep red eyes and rounded ears. Horrified looks crossing over their faces. She heard more than one curse to the Dread Wolf as the people obeyed her command, running from the Temple and back to the street. She threw a barrier along the length of the temple's steps, hoping to discourage any more of the faithful from seeking assistance from their place of worship.

"Sinead!"

Eluard waved at her from across the street. She grinned in relief and returned the wave as he ran for the stairs. Her barrier did not stop him – he stepped through the weave as if it was wet parchment. He took the steps by twos, then grabbed her up by his lanky arms in a tight hug.

"So far so good, eh?" he said as he dropped her back on her feet. "Though I didn't expect so many explosions…"

"That's the resistance," Sinead said with distaste. "They decided to strike when we did. They're slaughtering Titus's supporters, the –"

"Yes, yes, local politics can be a bloody thing. But that's not why we're here." Eluard ripped open the Temple doors with a wave of his hand and pushed her into the quiet, incense-filled space. He split his hands, and the pews along the grand Temple hall burst into flame, then settled into long piles of ash.

A number of robed men came running. Eluard waved his hand and paralyzed them all.

"I'm going to say this once." Eluard's voice was calm. "Leave. Now. There's about to be a very unpleasant fight here, and I would rather that none of you be injured or killed. Understood?" He released the men. They hesitated only a moment before fleeing the Temple.

"Well, that's settled." He pushed her toward the shadowed halls lining the great hall. "Go up into the balconies. I'll block you from him mentally, but for pity's sake, don't let him see you. If he suspects that someone else is messing with his bond with Purpose, we would have planned this nonsense for nothing."

Sinead nodded and ran up the stairs to the overhanging balconies over the grand hall. She ducked her head and held her breath.

* * *

Cole made it to the front entrance without catching the notice of the Ravens, but his luck could not hold forever. He felt eyes on him as he tried the locked door to the gatehouse. And as he kneeled in front of it and pulled out his tools, the eyes became a flutter of wings at his back. He worked quickly, unlocking the door as the Ravens touched foot against stone. He turned and threw a knife into one of the Ravens' chests. A current of electricity sizzled toward him. He jumped out of the way, and it burned a black spot on the wall. He circled around the Ravens, counting them – five left of six – and running from waves of fire and ice.

One of the Ravens lost patience and flipped toward him, brandishing her knives. He hit his knees and slid under her as she was in the air, spun while drawing his dagger, and caught her in the hip. She hit the ground with a groan. He sliced open her throat, then ran again to avoid the waves of spells aimed at him, summersaulting toward the legs of one of the Ravens. The Raven jumped over him and aimed his knives at Cole's back. Cole turned, dodged under the knives, thrust his knife into the Raven's gut and sliced sideways. The Raven gasped as he fell, dropping his knives. Cole picked the knives up as he ran from another assault of spells, then threw each of them into the throat of a Raven.

Two Ravens left. He panted as he ran, fire singeing his garish hat. He took the hat off and threw it at one of the Ravens. It burst into flames in front of the Raven's face, startling the young woman. Cole swung around her and stabbed her in the back. As he pulled his knife free, the last Raven slammed into him, forcing him to the ground. The two men struggled and wrestled, rolling around on the cobblestones, first Cole gaining the upper hand, then the Raven, both grappling with the other's arms.

The Raven managed to free his arm just long enough to gouge Cole in the thigh before Cole slammed the haft of his dagger into the young man's wrist hard enough to make the Raven lose his knife. Cole knocked it across the stones and kneed the young man in the stomach, his wound making him hiss in pain. He rolled the Raven onto his back, keeping a knee in his chest, and jammed his blade against the Raven's neck, ready to end the young man's life.

He paused, hand stilled. "You're the man we met on the road through the Silent Plains. Jules."

Jules shoved Cole's arm away and swung at his face. Cole dodged the blow, grabbed the Raven's tunic and slammed him against the stones, stunning him. He placed his blade once again at the young man's neck.

"Why are you still helping Titus?" Cole said, frustrated. "I told you he was a liar. Told you the whisperers don't want him."

"You're the liar, escort," the young man sneered. "You made me doubt for an instant, the smallest of moments, and now Bridget is dead. His Grace should have killed you when he rescued his granddaughter."

A red spark flashed in the sky – Sinead's signal. Cole kept his eyes on the Raven, hesitating. He did not have time to help this young man – had to open the gate as quickly as possible. And the young man had made his choice, had he not? In his grief, he had chosen Titus over truth.

But something within the young man spoke to Cole, keeping his hand still.

"I killed Bridget to save my friend," he said calmly. "'Four horses, all we need, kill the others, bind the horned woman to the saddle, end her when we're far enough away. Have the kid take her out – give him the experience.' Those were her thoughts. Quick, cold, calculating thoughts." Realization sparked. "You don't think like her. You don't think like any of them."

There was a struggle inside the young man – guilt, grief, anger, worry, so much doubt, a need to prove that he was capable, he was able –

"And they know," Cole continued. "They've always known. The training never worked on you. If you didn't show improvement on that mission, Bridget was supposed to kill you. When you returned with news of us, you were allowed to live. But you were watched. Always watched."

Jules went limp, his face fearful. "I…I am a Raven, I can…"

"No, you're not. And Bridget is dead." Cole removed the knife from the young man's throat and stood, favoring his uninjured leg. "They're dead." He pointed at the cut down Ravens. "They can't hurt you. And soon Titus won't be able to hurt you, either."

The young man said nothing, breathing heavily and staring up at the sky. Cole limped to the first Raven he killed and pulled his knife free, wiped his blade clean on the Raven's tunic, then cut a strip from the Raven's cloak and quickly bound his wound. He hop-ran to the gatehouse door, clenching his teeth against the pain.

"Why are you opening the gates?"

Cole looked back at Jules. He was sitting up now, his mind a mess of emotions.

"Is the Inquisitor invading?"

"No." Cole pulled open the door. "She's trying to help. We're all trying to help."

"Wait." Jules pulled a small vial from his belt and rolled it across the stones to Cole. "It's…a healing draft. Not very strong, but…"

Cole nodded and picked up the vial. "Go help. Stay away from Ravens – they're killing each other."

"What? I…" the young man paused and nodded. He removed his cloak, jumped, shifted, and flew away.

Cole pulled the cork from the vial and drank its contents. Immediately his leg felt better – not completely healed, but he could move it with only a twinge of pain. He ran up the gatehouse stairs, stopped at the door to the portcullis controls, crouched and pressed his ear against the door. Two guards within shared a conversation about a sexual conquest that did not hold Cole's interest.

He turned the handle and let the door swing gently open as he stood pressed against the wall next to the door. Immediately the guards were suspicious.

"Someone's out there," one of the guards muttered, drawing his sword. "Probably waiting around the corner to ambush us."

"A spy of some sort, you think? How the hell did one of those Shemlen bastards get past the Ravens?"

"You're not fooling us!" the first guard growled. "Show yourself."

Cole sighed. He should have known the same trick would not work twice.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, turning into the doorframe with his hands raised. "I had to kill the Ravens. Most of them."

The two guards stared at him.

"Who the hell is he?" The first guard muttered to the second.

The second paled. "You killed the Ravens? No one kills the Ravens."

"I did. I need to open the gate. Not for an invasion. Just for one man. Please don't make me kill you."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" the first guard scoffed. "Let's get this gormless bastard."

The first guard rushed Cole, sword raised, as the second drew his sword. Cole drew his knife, avoided the guard's downswing, slipped around the guard and stabbed him in the back of the neck. The guard gurgled and fell lifelessly to the floor, blood spurting from his wound. Cole turned to face the second guard. The living guard dropped his weapon and held up his hands, backing away.

"I don't want to die," he said frantically. "I was put in this job a few months ago because of the lottery! I can't fight!"

Cole sheathed his knife and picked up the abandoned sword, tossing it toward the stairs. "Can you open the gate for me, please?"

"Good Mythal, no! I'd be dead if anyone found out I helped you!"

Cole nodded, took the belt from the dead guard and bound the living guard to a post. The guard did not struggle. Then he pulled on the main portcullis lever and pushed the gear. The chains rattled as the gate opened.

"I bet the other guards are heading this way now," the guard warned as Cole finished. "There's no way you'll escape them. They –"

He stuttered to a halt as Cole stole the helmet from his head, then jerkily pulled the chainmail tunic off the dead guard.

"Hiding in plain sight," Cole explained as he slid the chainmail over his head, rebelted his blades on his back, and put on the helmet. "I'm sorry about your companion."

He ran down the stairs as explosions sounded around the city.

* * *

Sinead felt the barrier she placed on the Temple stairs rip to shreds.

"Eluard! I feel you in there, desecrating my most sacred sanctuary." Titus's voice was deep and echoing, unlike the softer tenor it usually was, and was filled with rage. It chilled her.

Eluard stood in the center of the Temple, arms crossed, unmoved by Titus's anger. "This tacky edifice is sacred to you? And I thought the Old God worshippers had poor taste."

Titus glided into the temple, eyes glowing white, face twisted into a snarling grin. "I knew you were behind the Inquisitor's arrival. But using her as a bluff to get through my defenses? Drawing power from her army? Very clever, old friend. Clever and foolish. You truly think that you'll gain the upper hand with the power gained from nonfamilial blood?"

"You've never been very good about guessing my thoughts."

"Where is my granddaughter?" Titus glanced around. "I feel the shield you've placed around her mind. She's still here. Why?"

Eluard snorted. "Ask her if you get the chance. I told her to run as far away from you as possible, but she wouldn't listen to me." Another explosion sounded in the distance. "Why are you wasting your time here, Titus? Your city is falling down around your ears. Shouldn't you get a handle on your people before poking around for one girl?"

"These people are pathetic," Titus spat. "I offer them deliverance, yet they incompetently lose the vessel that contains their salvation. They allow my greatest enemy to breach their gates. And now they destroy what I have taken centuries to build. And they do this again and again in cycles. I have had enough of it." He held up his arms, lifting his staff above his head. "Release the girl to me, or I will make you suffer more than you ever have at my hands before."

"Come now, you might as well simply attack me," Eluard said, shifting his feet into a fight stance and removing his staff from his back. "You know the answer is no."

Titus complied. A wave of fire rolled toward Eluard. Eluard quickly blocked it and set out a stream of ice as a response, which was blocked by Titus. They flung spells at each other, neither able to touch the other, spells dissipating in mid-air against powerful barriers. The metallic smell of magic filled the Temple as the two old enemies moved around the hall, sliding away from attacks, running around columns, jumping forward with quick spells then going on the defensive with barriers.

Sinead watched from the balcony, eyes peeking over the railing. The two foes were focused intently on their battle, neither dropping their gaze from the other. She could see the sparkling glow that surrounded them, the thin bands of power that bound them to each other, and the threads that bound Titus to the Fade through Purpose. She took a deep breath and let it go slowly through her nose. Then she focused on one of the threads, slowly unweaving it with her power. It was like unknotting a thick, sea-salt encrusted rope that was pulled tight for years by the wind pummeling the sail it held in place. Even with the strength of the power she held it was difficult, tetchy work. Finally, the thread came undone with a snap.

Titus jerked back in surprise, and Eluard's latest attack nearly hit him. He blocked it quickly.

"What are you doing?" He bellowed.

"Just trying something new," Eluard replied with a smirk. "You think I pulled all that power just to have another useless fight with you?"

Titus roared and doubled his attacks on Eluard as Sinead worked on a second thread. To her dismay, the ragged ends of the first thread began heal, lengthening and reaching for the Fade. As she snapped the second thread, the first reformed with a small burst of light.

"Clearly not as strong as you hoped, old friend," Titus said with dark amusement as he blocked a focused blizzard, dispersing clouds of snow around the Temple. "You'll have to work faster than that."

A bolt of electricity and a billow of flame flew at him from the entrance, catching him off guard. He dispelled the flames, but the bolt hit him, making him stumble.

"Hello, Titus," the Inquisitor called from the doorway, staff held aloft. Dorian stood to her left, his own staff sizzling with recently used power. Krem was at her right, sword and shield ready. Tal-Ashkaari took the rear, spear leveled at Titus. "I have a few complaints about your diplomatic policy."

Titus snarled. "I am surrounded by incompetents."

"More like surrounded by dissidents," Dorian quipped. "You have a lot of enemies, you know."

As they spoke, Sinead snapped another line. Titus roared and slammed Eluard with a wave of power. Eluard blocked what he could, sliding back a few feet but holding his ground.

"Enough chitchat!" Eluard snapped. "Help me!"

"You heard the man," Krem said with a grin. "Let's wreck house."

Krem rushed Titus as Eluard threw a barrier around him, deflecting the spell Titus launched at him. He swung his shield at Titus, forcing the mage to block him with a strong barrier. Dorian, Levallan and Eluard circled Titus, sending wave after wave of power at him. Tal-Ashkaari jumped back and forth, only approaching Titus when there was a clear opening, jabbing at him with her spear, then falling back.

Titus blocked every assault, sending out counterspells, throwing waves of power at his attackers. With each spell, his body contorted, growing larger, more twisted. His eyes glowed with power. Eluard, Dorian and the Inquisitor worked quickly to block his attacks with barriers, protecting Krem every time he was thrown off his feet, helping Tal-Ashkaari escape a battering by giving her an extra burst of speed.

Sinead worked carefully and as fast as she could as the battle raged below her. Sweat trickled down her temples. Another thread snapped, but just as she let out a breath of relief, the second line she had snapped mended. She seethed with frustration. Even with the distraction of the attacks, Titus still had the focus to fix her efforts to break his bond with the Fade.

She gritted her teeth and pushed her hand against her wound. Pain surged through her, building her power. She swallowed, caught her breath and attempted two threads at once, willing them to rupture. They wobbled, resisting her. She pressed her wound again. The threads snapped.

"Damn you, Antonius!" Titus stomped his foot, sending a shockwave through the foundation of the Temple and bringing all the attackers but Eluard to their knees. "Is this why my granddaughter is still here with us? This little trick of the blood of yours? I'm running out of patience!"

He lifted his hands, forming a domed barrier over Eluard. Eluard slammed his fists against the prison as Titus turned on the Inquisitor and her crew.

"This will take just a moment," Eluard said. "Don't die!"

"Well fuck us," Krem muttered as power surged from Titus.

Dorian and Levallan threw up barriers in time to save the crew's lives, but the power slammed them to the ground, ripping away all their protections and causing serious damage to them all. Sinead gasped and turned her attention from the threads to the dome over Eluard, snaking her power through the barrier, working with Eluard to shred the spell. The dome burst in a flash of light, and Eluard sent out a wave of healing magic as well as protective barriers. The crew rose to their feet, rattled but ready to continue their battle.

Sinead wiped her hand over her forehead, shaking. _That was far too close_ , her mind screamed. _Far too close_. As she thought this, another injured thread healed. She nearly shrieked in vexation, held back by Eluard's demand that she stay hidden.

She continued to work on the threads, but she knew the truth: even with the incredible power she held, she could not beat Titus. It was all up to Cole, now.

* * *

Cole ran toward the Temple, ignoring the desperate cries of the confused mob of people flooding the streets. It was hard to do so. So many people needed help, so many were lost and worried and scared. He focused on the plan, on his task, and kept running, reaching the area around the Temple in time to see the Inquisitor and her crew run up the stairs and disappear inside.

He dodged and wove around panicked people, moving toward the stairs, when someone grabbed his arm. He shook them off without thinking and moved to continue forward, but they grabbed his collar and turned him toward them.

"Are you insane?" a guard barked in his face. "The aggressor is in there! Titus is fighting him off as we speak! You're dead if you go any closer! Go help look for survivors at the textile guild!"

Cole pushed him away. "You go. I need to help."

"Yes, you do need to help – at the textile guild, soldier! March!"

Cole lost his patience. "Your mother is afraid for you. She's crying over a broken vase, given to her by her grandmother. She thinks you're going to die, like your father when he battled the angry farmers."

The guard's eyes went wide. He backed away. "W-who…"

"She won't stop crying until she sees your face. Go."

The guard nodded dumbly, turned and ran.

Cole ran up the Temple stairs, pressed his back against the wall, and peeked through the door. The battle raged between Eluard and Titus, with the Inquisitor and her crew assisting in distracting him. Cole could see the frayed edges of the snapped threads to the Fade. As he watched, one of the thin, dim lines healed.

He could not feel Sinead – all he could feel was the spell that hid her and her work on the threads. Two snapped, Titus retaliated with a show of strength, everyone lived, another thread mended. She was not fast enough to break the spell.

She needed help.

He slipped into the Temple and crouched in the shadows along the side halls, hiding behind a column. He drew Sinead's knife from his belt, closed his eyes, and followed Titus's movements with his mind. Simple steps and turns. Sometimes running. Steeling himself against assault. Cole opened his eyes and slid into the battle, keeping his thoughts small, and keeping out of Titus's line of vision.

The others noticed him at once. Dorian moved to throw a barrier around him, but both he and Eluard shook their heads slightly. Every show of magic caught Titus's notice, whether offensive or defensive. To remain hidden, Cole had to keep clean of any spells.

He moved with Titus, sliding around the floor with him, running with him, shifting with him, always at his back, closing in on him step by step until he was close enough to shadow him. He waited, still moving, still shifting, still out of sight. His injured leg began to ache at the jerky movement, the slight twinge becoming a steady throbbing. He clenched his teeth and tried to ignore it, waiting for his opening.

Suddenly Eluard cried "Now!" and Dorian, the Inquisitor and Eluard attacked Titus with dispel. Titus's barrier faded to nothing. Cole lunged forward, lifted the knife and brought it down on Titus, aiming for the main artery of the neck.

His leg betrayed him. As he lunged, the throbbing in his wound became a sharp sting. His foot faltered slightly, changing the angle of his attack. Instead of a killing blow, Cole caught Titus in the shoulder. Titus screamed, tore out the knife and threw it to the ground. He whipped around, throwing a wave of power at Cole. Cole flew through the air like a sack of straw so fast that no barrier had time to cover him. He hit the wall with a force strong enough to crack the mortar between the stones and fell limply to the floor.

Everything was pain. He was broken inside many, many times. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his lungs struggled to hold air. Titus ripped the stone alter out of the foundation and hurled it at him, and through a haze of agony Cole realized that he was going to die. He hoped Sinead would forgive him for not trying harder not to.

* * *

Sinead stood and caught the alter in midair, stopping its trajectory toward Cole. Titus spun around and spied her on the balcony.

"Ha!" he cried out, ripping away the railing and pulling her toward him.

Barriers flashed around her to break her fall, the strongest from Titus himself. She focused on holding on to the alter, which Titus had not yet released. As she landed, he threw a dome around himself, Sinead and Cole, separating them from the others.

"Damn it!" Eluard snapped. "Dorian, Inquisitor, help me break this damned thing!"

"Take your time, Eluard. It's a strong one. Isn't it, granddaughter?" Titus smiled as she staggered to her feet. "So you're the one who's been playing with my bond. Clever girl. Very clever. But not quite fast enough, were you?"

He laughed as every thread she had snapped healed. She barely paid attention to this, so focused was she on Cole's injuries – damage to lungs, liver, spleen, kidneys, broken ribs, arms, legs, collarbone, hips, internal bleeding – there was no way he could survive without immediate healing. She began working on his lungs.

"Oh, no, I can't have you healing him."

Titus sent a surge of power toward the stationary alter, making it move once more toward Cole. Sinead caught it again, but this time the strength of Titus's surge forced her to focus fully on keeping the alter still. Any attempt at healing Cole caused her grip on the alter to weaken, and it hurtled once more toward his broken body.

"It seems we are at an impasse," Titus said cheerfully. "But whether he is crushed by stone or bleeds out onto stone, your young man is going to die, my dear. What a pity." He walked up to her and patted her cheek. "The others won't get through this barrier before his injuries kill him. With all that power you've built up, I'm sure you can feel this."

He was right. She could feel Cole's life steadily slipping away as Eluard, Dorian and the Inquisitor worked at the dome. Her heart quelled.

"I'm perfectly willing to allow him to live," Titus continued, shrugging. "But I'm afraid I can't allow it unless you agree, right now, to come away with me. We will disappear from the world, you and I, and form another land where your descendants will await the glorious return of the gods. In time, I may even grant you the right to enjoy what is left of your life." He chuckled, then grabbed her chin. "Decide quickly, my dear. Time is running out."

"Don't do anything rash, girl!" Eluard cried. "We're working fast, and that boy is built like steel!"

"Steel sometimes shatters, old friend," Titus bit back.

Sinead's breath quickened. She could feel the panic rising, overwhelmed by the helplessness of the situation, frightened by Cole being yet again on the edge of death. But she could not go with Titus, not to save anyone's life – not just because the idea of what her own life would become as a result, but because the horror of the cycle of Titus's madness beginning anew, creating new victims, trapping Eluard once more in his penance for past sins.

Titus leaned into Sinead's ear, the blood from his wound dripping onto her stolen slippers. She stared at the stains, eyes wide.

"I need an answer, granddaughter."

Sinead made a decision.

She pulled at the power within Titus's blood. Immediately Titus stopped the pull.

"Son of a bitch," Eluard cried. "For Maker's sake, anything but that, Sinead!"

Titus laughed heartily. "Oh, why not let her have her fun, Antonius?" He stared her down. "You want power? Take it."

He pushed power into her, forced it to flow through her, more and more until she was gasping for breath. She was wrong – taking power from the soldiers was nothing like the Templar forcing lyrium into her veins. This, however – this was worse, for the power came not just with pain, but with the memories of those from which it was stolen, men and women through the centuries suffering for Titus's need for power.

She shook with it, then seized, frozen in place as the world brightened and her head throbbed, burned.

"You'll break her, damn it!" Eluard slammed his fists against the barrier.

"I don't need her mind to be whole," Titus said languidly.

She heard their words but did not understand them. She was lost in the power. It was too much, too fast, too fierce, she could not –

And then, the world split. Or, her head split. She was not sure which at first. All she knew was that she was calm. Unfeeling. Or, that was not right – one of her was calm and unfeeling. The other was nothing but feeling, a great swirl of emotion. And power. So much power. More power than a mind could hold without melting, unless protected in some way. Titus and Eluard, of course, were protected by their bond. Her unfeeling half was curious. What was protecting her?

She let time slow to a trickle for her, which she found interesting. She was separated, like when she was Tranquil, but clearly she could still tap her power. She looked around the Temple with calm curiosity. Written into the air were swirling and ridged geometric shapes, glowing with power – the hidden structure of the spells in use around her. The threads that connected Titus to the Fade were now like thick ropes. Everyone's aura shined bright with information about who they were and why.

Strangest of all were the feelings and thoughts that emanated from each person in ripples. She looked at each person in turn, feeling the curses from Krem as he kicked himself for suggesting this plan, it was his fault for allowing it to leave his head and Tal-Ashkaari wondering what purpose this all served if they could not defeat Titus. Was simply trying enough? Would she ever be enough? If she had fought harder, perhaps…Dorian knew he should have paid Cole no mind and given him a barrier anyway. Everyone was so quick to think that one way was the best way, never considering the alternative, and now because he followed the convention, the poor boy was dying, dying. The Inquisitor sank into herself – Cole bleeding out because Sinead had a habit of going too far – she was fairly sure the lady archivist was destined to die young. She helped so many people, but she could never help them all, even if she tried her very hardest, even if the way was clear, not one of her friends, though, let the kid live...Eluard ached at the thought of losing yet another person to his horrible mistake. Mistake? Sin, depravity, crime of great evil. He would never be free from the guilt, and never should be.

She shifted her gaze to Cole, who thought only that he hoped she would forgive him for dying. But his conscience was clear – he had helped, and was that not what he came into the world to do? It was not so bad, dying, once the pain was gone. Not so –

He focused on her. _She can hear me?_ He thought, sending out waves of muddled surprise.

She smiled slightly and turned her attention to Titus. His smirking, twisted form emanated a gray aura, as stifling as the aura of his city. His thoughts and emotions were veiled in gray, but it was nothing for her to brush the gray aside. Immediately she was flooded with guilt, remorse, self-loathing, terror – and an incredible sensation of hope, hope that it will all be worth it, in the end…

These were not Purpose's feelings. His were a swirl of need, a drive to succeed, to free the ones beyond who sang their sweet song to him for so long, the thrumming whispers of those behind the doors.

Years of Titus's life passed before her, flickering visions of sins and triumphs, death and life. She witnessed uprisings brutally quelled, acolytes loved and trained, descendants killed and bled. She saw the founding of Vir Arlathan, Titus leading a group of haggard elves into the fertile valley. She observed the slaughter of Eluard's family and slaves, Titus's hands shaking with doubt as Purpose soothed his worries and egged him on. She felt Titus's grief as he stared at the blood streaming from his son's head, not what I wanted, never what I wanted, but necessary, anything is necessary to break down the prison that traps the gods.

She pulled away from Titus's mind and slipped back into the proper flow of time. With a twist of her hand, the alter crumbled into gravel and fell harmlessly to the floor. A small flick of her fingers, and Cole was healed. He sat up, stunned, patting himself and staring at Sinead.

Titus gaped at her in astonishment. "Impossible. The power you hold should have left you mindless!"

"Correct," she said.

She focused on the ropes that bound Purpose to Titus, snapping one with a strong pull. Titus snarled and threw a jolt of power at her, a mish-mash of spells. She wove a barrier around herself that absorbed the power and dispersed it in a shower of sparks as she snapped two more ropes. He lashed out, building a great ball of fire and throwing it at her, burning away her barrier. She remained unfazed, blinking at the heat but continuing to snap ropes faster than Titus could heal them while weaving another, stronger barrier.

He threw spell after spell at her, destroyed barrier after barrier, but she was unmoved. Seven ropes were destroyed, ten, fifteen, twenty-two. As she neared completion, Titus doubled his efforts, his twisted body roiling, his voice a strangled cry.

"Everything I have worked for!" He screamed. "Centuries of struggle! You would end it all now, when I am so close?"

"You are not close," she said flatly. "You have never been close."

She pulled on the final rope, feeling Purpose emerge from Titus, a great grey and purple cloud of terrible potential, twisted into a demon whose name she did not know.

"This one was always too weak," he rumbled. "The whispers knew. They will not be denied. They will be freed."

As the final rope snapped, the demon seized her connection to the Fade, clinging to her power. She could not feel her fear, but she saw it amassing in her other self, screaming at her to shake the demon loose. She pushed at him with a wave of power, but he held fast, drawing near her, pushing into her. She steeled herself against him, blocking him, mind and body, as he searched for a way within her. Every spot the demon touched burned her, bringing tears to her eyes. Even with the power, it hurt her, exhausted her to fight. She could feel her strength winnowing away.

"We shall be one," he said triumphantly. "Release yourself to me, and end your struggle. You shall be mine."

Outside herself, she felt a hand grip her own.

"He doesn't know," Cole whispered into her ear. "You never stop when you know you're right."

Her other self laughed. She gathered what was left of her power and split it, anchoring herself in reality, then pushing her power through her connection to the Fade, making herself solid as possible in both worlds.

"I do not know who you are, but you are not welcome." she said firmly. "Let go of me, or I will have to make you."

The demon gripped her tightly. "Who are you to make demands of me? You are a pawn, a tool, a speck. Submit to your better."

"You are no one's better."

She pulled at every bit of power not holding her solid and engulfed the demon in flames. It flailed and fought back at first, but she was relentless, pushing until the flames were bright blue. The demon screamed, its smoky visage burning. It released her, pouring power against the fire. Every flame he quenched she replaced with another. The demon hissed, disintegrating into inky smoke.

Sinead took a deep breath and nodded with satisfaction. The power still sat within her, but it was slowly fading, no longer held in place by the demon's existence.

Eluard whooped from beyond the barrier. "You brilliant lass! You did it. I can't believe – never in all my years did I think – come on, you two, let's get them free!" He slapped Dorian and the Inquisitor on the back and poured his magic into the barrier.

Sinead blinked, unmoved, though her other self was cheering with glee. She squeezed Cole's hand and slipped from him, kneeling beside the fallen Titus. The elf was wild-eyed, tugging at his sleeves, rocking on his knees.

"All alone, all alone," he muttered. "He promised he would never leave me. We have things to do. Great things!"

He flinched as she placed her hand on his shoulder. "He is gone. You are only you now."

He slapped her away. "Wench, bitch, monster!"

He screamed, scooped up her knife from the floor at his feet and lunged at her. Cole caught him by the wrist and twisted until he gave up the knife.

"It doesn't want her," Cole said calmly, grabbing Titus's hair placing the blade against Titus's neck. "It wants you."

Sinead stood and shook her head.

Cole frowned. "He's killed so many people. People are dying right now for him."

"But he no longer retains power. And the people of Vir Arlathan will not benefit from his death. It is a complex situation."

Cole hesitated, then freed Titus and sheathed the knife. Titus rolled up into a ball, rocking back and forth.

Sinead looked away, no longer interested in the broken man, and examined the geometric structure of the domed barrier that Eluard still worked on. She took in the auras, thoughts and feelings rippling around her, the hazy Veil that separated the Fade from reality.

"Is this how you see all the time?"

Cole smiled. "Once, yes. Not anymore. It's all faded, now. I have to look and listen closely to see and hear clearly."

"It is very bright. And hard to tell what is where and when and who thinks why."

"Yes."

The power was slipping away. She could feel her selves merging together, becoming whole again.

Cole looked alarmed. "There's still a part of you solid in the Fade. Pull away."

"Yes, I –"

The last of the power left her. She was whole again, whole and injured in her left shoulder and tapped of mana and blood magic and filled with a swirl of emotions. She swayed on her feet.

"Oh, bollocks," she slurred as she fell into a faint and blackness took her.


	35. The Last Loose Ends

Cole caught Sinead as she fell, and lowered her to the floor. He frowned. She felt like she was sleeping peacefully, but he could not see her dreams. It was…odd.

The barrier shattered, and suddenly he was surrounded by friends. The Inquisitor pulled him up and gave him a hug tight enough that his chainmail tunic pressed painfully into his chest. She pulled away and then Dorian was patting him on the shoulder while Krem slapped his back and wiggled the helmet on his head.

"I am so glad you're okay," the Inquisitor said with relief. "You had me worried for a moment."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to almost die." He took off the helmet and shook out his damp hair.

The Inquisitor's brows shot up in surprise. She smiled, amused. "Is that…stubble upon your chin?"

"What? Oh." Cole rubbed his cheek. He had grown so used to the sensation by now that he did not think about it much.

"Did we forget to tell you on our way here?" Dorian threw his arm over Cole's shoulder. "Our young spirit friend has become a man. In many different ways."

"Dorian…" Cole felt himself blush. He found that unfair – not only did he have to feel embarrassment, one of his least favorite emotions, his body told everyone when he was embarrassed, which was even more embarrassing. That was one thing he knew he would never get used to.

"Well, well!" The Inquisitor grinned at him. "I'll have to congratulate you properly later." She nodded at Sinead. "Is she okay?"

"Yes."

He kneeled next to Eluard, who was on his knees, examining Sinead. Tal-Ashkaari was sitting across from them, scribbling madly in a small journal.

"She appears to be healthy. Strong." Eluard frowned as he examined her, his eyes tinged with red. "She used a lot of power, tapped her own limits, but ultimately did not go too far. The power she drew from Titus prevented this. She feels a bit odd, though…perhaps a residual sensation from holding that much power." He healed Sinead's shoulder.

"How was she able to hold so much power?" the Inquisitor asked. "I could feel it all around her. Nothing organic should have been able to survive holding that amount of power without becoming mush."

"She split in two," Cole said, fingering a few of Sinead's curls. "Her self and her other self."

"Yep, that explains it," Krem drawled.

"In a way, it does," Eluard mused, standing and rubbing his scrabbled shin. "When she was made Tranquil, Sinead was cut off from the Fade. Essentially 'split' from her 'soul', if you will. If what Cole says is true, I hypothesize that when the power became too much for her physical body, the part of her that is connected to the Fade broke away and took the power with it."

"Ah, so essentially her 'soul' became a reservoir for the power? Fascinating." Dorian brightened as he connected the dots in his mind. "And because she had no true block from the Fade, she was able to draw upon that power. Well, isn't that a handy trick!"

"How could Tranquility cause such a thing?" The Inquisitor said doubtfully. "The reports I've read about the mage Pharamond say that he showed no special skills when he was cured. In fact, he was plagued by a lack of emotional control."

"When Sinead was cured, she seemed generally unaffected, aside from the obvious need to regain emotional control," Eluard explained. "However, this makes little sense – seekers gain special abilities when made Tranquil and then cured, and they are men and women born with no magical prowess. I hypothesize, then, that Tranquility also gives mages special abilities – abilities that have not been seen in some time, if ever. After all, what mage has been made Tranquil and then cured in our written history?"

"This could change so many things," Dorian muttered under his breath, becoming excited. "Think of it – if Tranquility allows for new abilities, new powers when cured, then –"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the Inquisitor said, holding up her hands. "We can discuss the possibilities later. And I'll have to say a few words to Divine Victoria about it, as well. For now, this stays between us, are we clear?"

Everyone nodded, save Cole, who was studying Sinead's hair and only half listening, and Tal-Ashkaari, who was still writing furiously in her notebook. The Inquisitor coughed loudly, and caught both of their attention.

"I said, are we clear?"

"I can…be vague in my report about the phenomenon," Tal-Ashkaari said reluctantly.

"Yes," Cole said, letting a lock of Sinead's hair slip through his fingers – it was completely white, and to his eyes it glowed with an inner light. It unnerved him. The lock disappeared into her black curls.

"Right. Now, next steps – we need to fetch Josephine, get out of this city and have Cullen rally the troops," the Inquisitor said, her voice slipping into one of authority. "These people need our help – it sounds like chaos out there."

For the first time, the others (aside from Cole, who had been feeling the general turmoil of the city for some time) took notice of the din of shouts and cries and explosions beyond the Temple doors.

"You'll do no such thing," someone bellowed from the balcony above.

Everyone looked up to see an older elf dressed in a flowing green robe and cowl. He held a staff, and stared down at the crew with a cool gaze.

"Inquisitor, you have no authority in this city," the man continued. "We are a free city-state and will not abide intervention from the outside."

"Pardon me, but who exactly are you?" the Inquisitor asked crossly. "You weren't at the Council meeting."

"Of course I wasn't. I am head priest Trefor," the man said loftily. "But more importantly, I am head of the resistance." He pointed at Sinead with his staff. "I allowed your follower to live so that she may attempt to end Titus's life. She spared him, but the end result is the same: Titus no longer holds power in Vir Arlathan. She has followed through with her promise. Now I recommend that you all vacate this city until it is in the hands of my people."

"What, just like that?" The Inquisitor scoffed. "Your people are blowing up buildings! How many civilians died under the weight of all that stone?"

"For a full and complete regime change, all dissenters must be culled," Trefor said firmly. "This is none of your concern."

"I can't let you –"

"Inquisitor! You have two hundred soldiers to call on, yes? I have my own soldiers, and they will defend the city with their lives. You have a choice! If you want to prevent death, I suggest immediate retreat of you and your party. We can parlay about the issue with the Anders when we have stabilized."

"How do you know of the Anders? I thought you weren't at the Council meeting," the Inquisitor said darkly.

Trefor gave her a small smile. "I have my little birds. Now, leave. And take Titus's spawn and her escort with you. We want nothing to do with either of them. Get them out of our city."

"Inquisitor, I think it may be a good idea to accommodate his request," Dorian muttered. He nodded at the door.

Twelve robed Ravens stood on either side of the door, their eyes cool and unfeeling. Josephine was in their midst, putting on her bravest face, but Cole could feel that her nerves were tight and tearing.

"My people will escort you to the city gates, Inquisitor," Trefor said. "We will speak later."

"But what of Titus?" Tal-Ashkaari eyed the broken man as she stood.

"He will answer for his crimes," Trefor said grimly.

The Inquisitor hesitated a moment before relenting.

"Let's go," she said angrily. "I need a very large drink."

Cole picked up Sinead, and the crew was marched through the mad mob by the Ravens. The doors to the city closed behind them, muffling the cacophony within.

* * *

The Inquisitor, Cullen and Josephine argued for some time about what to do, as the cries within the walls refused to still and fire lit up the night sky. The advisors urged the Inquisitor to be patient and wait out events.

"We are unwanted," Josephine said. "If we attack now, the Anders may see it as a sign to push forward, and the city will be overwhelmed. It is…most disturbing, I know, but if we want to minimize losses on either side…"

"Josephine is right," Cullen said slowly. "We may succeed in taking the city, but not without serious losses. And we did not come here to fight against revolutionaries – we always had the intention of freeing Sinead from being pursued by a madman first, and freeing the world of another potential Corypheus situation second."

The Inquisitor reluctantly agreed, but it hurt her to do so. Cole found her at the fire that night and sat beside her as guilt and anger and regret and frustration rippled from her.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing by not helping the people of Vir Arlathan?" she asked turning to him. "Be honest."

Cole thought a moment. "I…don't know. If you send in the Inquisition soldiers, many might die. No one will be happy with you. But, you would have tried. It's…complicated." He clasped his hands together. "I want to help, but no one wants me in there. They think I'm one of the bad ones. I…don't think it would help to help."

The Inquisitor gave him a thoughtful look. She felt of the sadness that comes with wisdom.

"You have grown up quite a bit since you first joined the Inquisition," she said with a small smile. "I don't know if the young man I first met would have even wanted to understand a concept like 'complexity.'" Her face became concerned. "Has it been very difficult?"

"Sometimes." He looked down at his hands. "I know now that I would have been happier if I had made a different choice. That it wasn't the wrong choice to make. But neither was this one. Sometimes it's terrible. Sometimes it's wonderful." He gave her an inquisitive look. "Is that right?"

"That's as right as I've been able to make it, Cole." She hugged him with one arm. "I think you're doing fine."

"I think you are, too." He slipped away from her. "I know you will help them when they let you."

"I'll damn well try."

Another day passed and the city continued to burn, but the cries died down. Charter and her spies had escaped in the night, reporting to the Inquisitor that the people had been gathered in units.

"We got out by the skin of our teeth," she said. "I think the killings are finished, aside from the random dissident. They're parading Titus around like a trophy. It's…not surprising, given the city's history, but it's still an unpleasant sight."

Cole tried to ignore the pain he felt from behind the wall. It shook him, being so close and being able to do nothing, just as he had been able to do nothing throughout his time in Vir Arlathan.

It did not help that Sinead still slept. As the noise and turmoil within the city calmed, she lay in the infirmary tent, unmoved by either Eluard or the healer's examinations. Her breathing was steady; her mind was calm. Cole hovered around her – usually he would be fine with her sleeping and do what he could to help around the camp, but this sleep felt so strange, so different.

She still did not dream. Or, no, she was dreaming – it was not like when Varric slept, where there was nothing but black and rest. But he could see nothing, could hear nothing. And more than that, she felt slightly unreal – like that strand of hair that glowed beneath the blackness. It was not supposed to exist, not here, not where things were solid. The bit of her she left in the Fade when the power left her was stuck, and so she seemed to be in both places at once. Had he still been more spirit, he may have seen it as interesting, but nothing to worry about. Now it rattled him – even _he_ always existed in one realm or the other, not in between. This was unnatural, only possible by the blood magic she had used to break Purpose's grip on her.

"She'll wake eventually," Eluard reassured him one morning as he checked over Sinead. "It was quite a lot of effort to use all that power, and I have a feeling she doesn't do it often. If she practiced more…" he began to grouse about his former student's study habits.

"I know she'll wake up," Cole said, frustrated. "But what will she be when she does?"

Eluard quieted. "Ah. I should have known you noticed. I'm so used to being the only one who…well." He combed through Sinead's hair and presented the bright, white lock on his palm. "She's caught, and I can't free her – much of my power dissipated with Purpose. I don't think anyone could free her at this point, save someone with incredible power. Have you gone looking for her yet?"

"In the Fade?" Cole shook his head. "It's hard for me to find someone specific."

"Hm." Eluard chuckled. "You know, I don't wonder that if you had let yourself be a mage, if you would have been a dreamer. You handicapped yourself by coming here without any other magic than what you held. But I suppose that was the point, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well. I can find whomever I wish in the Fade while they dream. I was always good at it. Picked up on it right away when I was taught long ago. I've found Sinead plenty of times in her lifetime." He curled the lock of hair around a finger. "And now I can't. She's a mystery. Hidden away somewhere that I can't reach." He released the lock and raised a brow. "She is sound of mind and body. And it's likely that her day to day life and thoughts and feelings will remain unchanged. But we'll have to watch her, won't we? Just in case."

Cole considered all the meanings of "just in case" that ran through Eluard's thoughts. He nodded.

"Just in case."

After this discussion, Cole decided to distract himself. He ran errands around camp, did his usual help with the little things, and helped Charter and her team prepare their kits. It was then that Charter took notice of his presence in camp. After a word with the Inquisitor, Charter took up all of his time for the rest of the day.

"It's about time you learned how to make a proper kit." She eyed up his clothes. She had returned his hat to him with great unwillingness, and she stared at it upon his head with distaste. "You can't jump in and out of every enemy camp with that _thing_ on your head."

"I have before," he said, annoyed. "And it's not any _thing_. It's _my hat_."

Charter snorted. "We'll work around it. For now."

She set him the task of preparing his own kit for her to inspect, then had him walk through training exercises with the others on her team. They gave him blunted knives, at first treating him like a novice, then quickly realizing their mistake and using him as a living practice dummy, everyone taking a turn trying to gain the upper hand on him. It was interesting to fight without hurting or killing – almost like a dance.

Finally, in the afternoon on the third day, a representative from the new Vir Arlathan Council entered the Inquisition camp and announced that the Council requested an audience with the Inquisitor, her Ambassador, and the false prophet's granddaughter.

"Tell the Council that we will accommodate its request as soon as all members of our party have recovered," the Inquisitor said shortly. "And tell them I look forward to our future negotiations. I imagine they'll be…lively."

When the representative was out of earshot, the Inquisitor pulled Cole aside.

"Is she going to wake up soon, do you think?" she asked.

Cole shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" The Inquisitor was flabbergasted.

"I'm allowed not to know."

"Yes, of course, it's just…rare." She sighed. "Well, I cannot keep this unit here forever. And the Anders are still awaiting an answer. If Sinead doesn't wake up soon, I'll have to move forward without her."

"You shouldn't. They'll be very angry if you do."

"Damn it."

Cole could feel the Inquisitor's agitation grow as the day passed by and Sinead still did not wake. It fed his own worry. The last time she had taken so long to recover, she had been trapped in her own dreams. Now he could not tell what kept her from surfacing from sleep. It was enough to distract him as he practiced with the scouts and spies. One or two managed to hit him in the arms with their blunted blades, bruising him.

He slept fitfully that night, unable to stay in the Fade without worrying about where Sinead may be in the empty, jagged plains. Or, not so empty, now. Only three nights had passed since Purpose was defeated, and already the Fade was shifting away from the demon's formation. The gray was gone, replaced with a tinge of green, and small spirits were tacitly probing the land. As it healed, it felt good to be in the Fade again. Restful.

Usually restful. Now he tossed and turned, plagued by apprehension. He rose with the sun, blinking away the sleep, exhausted. He ate a quick meal in the mess tent, then plodded to the practice area to work with the scouts.

And then, Sinead awoke. Her mind was a flash of brilliant light in his. He perked up and turned away from the grounds.

"Where do you think you're going?" Charter grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. "Practice every morning and afternoon. Every scout. That's the command."

"But –"

"No buts. Get to work." Charter pulled her knives. "Me first."

He could not stand it, this practicing when he did not want to practice. He fought with frustration, winning every bout as quickly as he could, the feeling of Sinead existing and awake somewhere without him making his mind reel.

Finally, he could take it no longer. He threw his knives into the ground point first, and ran off.

"That's insubordination!" Charter called after him.

"I know!" he called back. "I'm sorry!"

He ran through the camp, dodging soldiers and mages and healers, passing through the main hub of the camp, ignoring Dorian as he called after him from the mess tent, following Sinead's thoughts to the small copse of trees that ran alongside the small river that flowed close by.

A few soldiers stood guard in front of the copse. He flew by them, ignoring their yells for him to stop. They chased after him, but were unable to catch up. A large blue tent had been erected across the shallow river. His heart leapt – Sinead was within; he could feel her cheery thoughts. Without slowing, he made for the tent, kicking up water as he ran, and slid between the lowered flaps.

"Si – oh!"

It was the women's bathing tent. And the women were not happy to see him. He flushed furiously and pulled his hat over his eyes as a cry went up among the female soldiers.

"Sorry!" He said as the women jeered and pelted him with mud clods.

"Stop! Wait! I think he's here for me!" Sinead's voice rose from the crowd. And then her hand was in his, and she was pulling him from the tent as the mud continued to shower him.

"Sorry!" he said one last time, to many hisses and curses.

The two soldiers were at the tent now, and he stopped with Sinead, eyes still covered, as she talked them down.

"He didn't know this was the women's tent," she said soothingly. "He wasn't thinking. He does that sometimes."

"Well, I'm telling you there's about a dozen soldiers that will try that trick if we don't punish him," one of the guards snapped.

"Tell the Inquisitor personally. I'm sure she'll explain. I'll take care of him for now."

She pulled him away from the anger and annoyance emanating from the tent. He stumbled along after her, not wanting to uncover his eyes, feeling desperately embarrassed.

"Since when do you go bright red when you see a bunch of naked bodies?" she said, amused.

"I don't know," he said, amazed. "There was so much… _skin_. Bright red?"

"Like a ripe apple," she said cheerfully. "And what exactly were you thinking? Surely you could hear all those thoughts."

"I wasn't listening for them. I was listening for you. I was thinking, I want to see Sinead."

She stopped and pushed up his hat. Her brown eyes danced with laughter. Damp coated her golden skin and shoulder-length hair, and she was wearing an equally damp shift that clung to her body.

"And now what are you thinking?"

"Um." He tried to think of something to say, but she was very distracting.

"Me, too."

She wrapped her arm around his neck and jumped on him, forcing him to catch her while she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him. He stumbled back and fell to the ground as he returned her kiss, his back hitting a tree. He noticed for the first time that they were somewhere within the copse of trees, a distance from the camp. Sinead worked to open the clasps on his tunic as she kissed his neck.

"There's…patrols along the river…" he said reluctantly.

"I. Don't. Care," she said between kisses as she grabbed his hat and tossed it away.

He supposed he had done his due diligence and took her reply as permission to help her remove her shift.

After, she straddled his lap, resting her head against his shoulder as he hugged her against him and ran his hand over her hair. She was still very much Sinead, that was clear. He was relieved and content and rather happy.

"You're still you," he murmured absently.

She pulled away and gave him a look. "Of course I – oh. Oh, did you think I'd be Tranquil again? Because of the way I – well, I sort of broke in two…"

"No." He brushed a few stray hairs from her face. "The piece of you that's trapped in the Fade…you're more solid there, now. A little less solid here."

"A very, very little," she said stoutly. "It's like I slammed my pinkie toe in a door, that's all. Nothing worrying. I still feel like me."

"And your dreams," he continued. "I can't hear a thing."

"Well, I can't remember a thing," she said with a shrug. "Which is preferable to me. I wouldn't mind never dreaming again."

"But –"

"You're only worried because you don't have any answers for my current…condition." She kissed him and smiled. "But no one has answers. It's not exactly normal. Sometimes that's how it is."

"It doesn't bother you." He said slowly. "It's a price to you. For using a power collected from so many lost lives. You shouldn't think of it that way. It's not _you_ –"

"I know." She stood and collected her shift from the ground, knocking off dead leaves. "I can't help it." She gave him a pleading look. "Please. Let's not discuss this one thing?"

He hesitated. "…For now," he conceded.

"Thank you." She picked up his hat and plopped it on his head. "I have to go. I was told that I'm to meet with the Council. Good Maker, I thought it would be finished when Titus was finished, but I suppose not. And you?"

"I'm helping some of the scouts…train…"

He realized suddenly how very annoyed Charter was going to be when he returned. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel her seething about him. He watched Sinead struggle into her shift, knowing better than to offer help, and smiled. This was worth the coming unpleasantness.

* * *

The Inquisitor, Josephine, Sinead, and a very small entourage of soldiers were gone for the rest of the day, meeting with the Vir Arlathan Council. Almost all of the soldiers had eaten dinner and left the mess before the group's return. Cole waited until the last moment to eat, then shared his meal with Dorian, Krem and Tal-Ashkaari, listening to the three of them chatter about their own adventures running from Titus's scouts.

"Oh, that one village with all the dye vats," Krem said. "D'you – Tal-Ashkaari, d'you remember how you just knocked that little green bird right out of the air with your spear? Plunk! Right into a vat of yellow dye. Poor kid shifted back spitting dye out of his mouth."

"Not too terrible for him – yellow was his color," Dorian said, laughing. "I'm rather fond of the moment you convinced two scouts that Tal-Ashkaari was a totally different capped-horn woman with a spear in the middle of Tevinter. "Oh, her? Oh, we bought her at a discount. She makes terrible fritters."

"I would still like to know what a fritter is," Tal-Ashkaari said thoughtfully. "I do not believe the samples either of you made are worthy to be called food."

"Oh, harsh words from a woman who burns water." Krem grinned.

"I had forgotten that! Burning water! _Water_ , my dear."

"It was the pot," she said defensively. "And I merely forgot it was on the fire until the water boiled away."

"I'll miss that pot," Krem sighed. "It made so many good stews…"

Dorian looked at Cole. "Are you sure nothing of note happened in your travels?"

They had been trying to get him to tell tales for days, but he never seemed to do it right. They always looked so confused when he finished. He thought a moment.

"There was a cat. A kitten. Small, silly, soft. It annoyed its mother." He chuckled a little, remembering the kitten shaking its small head and then jumping back up on the porch to attack his mother's tail again. "Her tail flicked back and forth so fast! Maybe I won't brood again for a while…"

All of them stared at him.

"It was funny."

"Yes, well. I suppose you had to be there," Dorian said kindly.

Just then, the Inquisitor and Sinead entered the mess tent, joining their group. The Inquisitor felt tired – Sinead, however, was stormy. She dropped into the seat next to Cole with a glower on her face.

"How was the meeting?" Dorian asked lightly.

"Long. Josephine went to her tent with a headache." The Inquisitor grabbed a pitcher of ale and poured she and Sinead a glass. "It took a long time to convince this new regime to open their gates to outsiders. At least they didn't try to kill us this time."

"The people have been press-ganged into cleaning up the city," Sinead spat. "They refused all help from the Inquisition. Unbelievable. They've gone from a theocratic regime to something akin to slavery."

"It may have gone a little faster if our Lady Archivist kept a few of her opinions to herself," the Inquisitor said, rubbing her eyes. "They were not her biggest fans."

"They treat you poorly?" Krem asked, concerned.

"They banned me from the city for the extent of my life," Sinead said with a shrug. "I presume upon my death I'm allowed to return. They also told me to denounce Titus and to proclaim myself in no way his heir. Frankly, we were in agreement on every point regarding myself."

"And what of Titus, that happy rogue?" Dorian asked.

"They're forcing him to be on a work detail," Sinead said. "Hard labor. He's lost his wits, but they don't seem to care. There policies are still mad as before."

"Hopefully the politics of the city will change. Josephine wheedled the Council until they agreed to allow some statescraftsmen in to help them come up with a more logical government. And I've sent messages to the Anders. The whole thing is, frankly, a mess. And I'd rather not discuss it again tonight." The Inquisitor downed her drink and poured another. "The point is, it's done."

"It's…done." Sinead's face lightened, her frown washed away by awe. "It's truly finished. No more wandering, no more looking for puzzles, no more running." She was a mix of incredible relief and a bit of sadness. "It's over."

"Well, don't look so excited," Dorian quipped. "The ecstasy may freeze your face like that."

"Of course I'm happy. But…I suppose our travels are over as well. It feels strange."

"It's always strange when you come to the end of a journey after pouring so much of your life into it, isn't it?" The Inquisitor gave her a sympathetic smile. "I understand the feeling."

"So I suppose…we're going home, then? Back to Skyhold?" She brightened. "I've missed my bed so much over the last months…"

"Well, you may be going back to Skyhold, but I'm afraid that this is where I part ways from the Inquisition." Dorian swirled the ale in his cup. "Time to say hello to father. Take my place as a proper Pavus."

"Oh. Of course." Sinead's smile dropped a little. "You came with us as a last mission before going home."

"Afraid it's the same for me, actually," Krem said with a half shrug. "The Chief's been going on about heading out in the world again. He wants me to meet him up in Rivain. Have no idea what he has planned for us there."

"So you won't be stopping by Skyhold first." Sinead drooped a little more.

"Not for some time." Krem gave her a grin. "Aw, it's not so bad. We'll come around again. So long as we're being paid by the Inquisition, Skyhold is home for us, too."

"I will be on my way as well," Tal-Ashkaari said. "I must return to Par Vollen. I have collected far more information than what I initially hoped for."

"Oh, yes. That makes sense. Then…everyone is going their own separate ways." Sinead smiled sadly at Cole. "I suppose we'll have to keep ourselves company on the way home."

Krem choked on his ale and coughed. Dorian and the Inquisitor looked at Sinead, then stared at Cole.

Sinead furrowed her brow. "What? What's wrong?"

"I am also confused," Tal-Ashkaari said.

"Come, my dear, I wish to read through some of your notes." Dorian stood and offered his arm to the Qunari woman. "We must make sure that you have the details about the magic correct."

"If you think that is necessary," Tal-Ashkaari said, befuddled. She took Dorian's arm and allowed herself to be led from the tent.

The Inquisitor eyed Krem. "I lost Bull's last report. Could you give me a copy of yours?"

"Absolutely," Krem said, jumping up from the table fast enough that the cups rattled. He and the Inquisitor fled the tent.

Sinead set her arm atop her sling and frowned at Cole. "What's going on?"

The hard part was here. He looked down at the table. "I'm not going back to Skyhold."

"…What?"

"Before Eluard was found – before everything – the Inquisitor asked me to join Charter's scouts. For special missions. Specific missions. Very long missions."

"How long?"

"…A year away from Skyhold. Maybe more."

He could feel her heart jump.

The words tumbled from his mouth. "I said yes – I knew you wouldn't mind, not then, not as much, you would know that I was helping, and you would have your library and everything would be fine and there would be missing and distance, but it would be okay. And then Eluard was found, and I promised to do this mission first – it wasn't supposed to be so long, a few weeks, maybe a month. And then." He looked up at her. "Things changed. I. I changed. And you. And us."

Sinead's mind was cartwheeling. "But the promise to join the scouts. That didn't change."

"No."

Her mind snapped back. She was hurt. Angry. In pain. "How could you not tell me? All this time –"

"At first, it was okay. We were still what we were, and it didn't matter. But the more time that passed, the more we – it was hard!" He was becoming flustered. The guilt he had hidden for some time came to the surface. "I couldn't say anything when you went Tranquil. I – couldn't watch you not care. And then we were alone, and it was – I didn't want to –"

"You didn't want me to pull away." Sinead placed her hand on her chest. "You didn't want me to keep from…getting closer to – oh, this really hurts." Her whole body was tense, like when she was about to panic. "When were you planning on telling me? When you were packed up and heading in a separate direction from me?"

"No! I wanted to – when you woke up, as soon as I could, I – oh, this is all going wrong."

He reached up to his necklace, unclasped it and pulled the little wooden charm he had carved free. He had finished it soon before Titus had captured them. The cylinder was now half an inch in length and made of delicate loops and knots.

Sinead paid no attention to this. She stood and staggered toward the tent's entrance.

"I need to be alone for a little bit," she said. "Need some air. We can – there's still time, the camp has to be packed – so little time…"

"Please wait," he pleaded, jumping up and blocking her path. He held the cylinder out to her. "Take an end."

Sinead blinked at him, but she did as he asked. He carefully turned the cylinder until there was a small snik and it came apart in two, distinct pieces.

Sinead's shock was momentarily forgotten. She smiled and held up her end of the cylinder. "This is what you were making? How clever, Cole! And so beautifully done."

"It's a bit big," he said bashfully. "For you, I mean. It's too small for me. I'll have to wear it on my necklace."

"A bit –"

"I don't think it will fit on any of your fingers. But –" He took her half and slipped it on her thumb. He turned it once, pleased. "It shouldn't slide off."

Sinead was stone still. "What is this, Cole?"

He squeezed her hand between his. The words were very hard to say, for some reason. And suddenly he was filled with fear. So much fear, and he was not sure why.

"Come with me." The words came from him breathlessly.

"What? But…I'm not a scout." Her mind seemed unable to process the request. "I'm a librarian."

"Yes. But you're also a healer." Excitement grew in his chest as he spoke. "I can only help people in one way. I can't heal hurts of the body. You can. You can help me help."

"I…my title is Lady Archivist." She was finally able to focus on him again. "Even if I wanted to become a healer, I think Josephine would deny me. The Inquisition doesn't need any more healers. And even if I did change positions, I wouldn't necessarily be sent off with a bunch of scouts."

"You're right." He shrugged. "But that's okay! _You don't have to be part of the Inquisition_."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "You're suggesting I…quit the Inquisition?"

"Yes."

"To run around adventuring with you and be a…a traveling healer or…"

"Yes!"

"But I –" She pulled her hand from his. "You heard Krem. I'm horrible at the whole adventuring thing!"

"You're not! I mean, you were, but you're not anymore. You did so much good – you healed me, and worked with the plague people, and helped me with little things and fought Purpose. And you can do so much more!"

"But…I'm a librarian," she said weakly.

This was not going as he hoped it would.

"I know," he said soothingly. "But you don't have to be. But – but if you want to stay in Skyhold, that's okay, too." It hurt him to say this, but he pressed on. "You can be who you want to be. You keep the ring, and know that wherever I am, I'm thinking of you."

She was no longer stiff. She softened, and her arm dropped to her side.

"Are you truly asking me to come with you because you think I can help? You don't think I'll get in the way?"

"Yes." He was relieved. Then he went shy. "And…well, and I – I don't want to miss you again."

She stared at him a moment. Her feelings were tangled and turbulent. So many things to consider, a whole different life, a whole different way of thinking of herself, a choice between missing and not, stable home or not – and then they were blocked by angry, stampeding druffaloes.

"I need – I have to think." She walked out of the tent.

He followed after her. "Sinead!"

"I have to think!" she snapped, holding up her hand as she stormed away.

"Hold up." Krem's hand landed on his shoulder, preventing him from pursuing Sinead. "This is one thing you can't help with. Not yet."

"But…she might say no," Cole said, crestfallen.

"Yep." Krem slapped him on the back. "Come on, have another drink with me."


	36. Sinead Makes a Decision

Sinead slept alone that night. Or tried to sleep. She had slept for so long that she was not sure she could ever sleep again. After tossing and turning for a few hours she tossed off her blanket, crawled out of her tent and walked the length of the camp, trying to clear her mind.

There were a few lingering fires in the camp, circled by guards on night watch. They nodded to Sinead as she passed by. She left the camp and walked to the river, waving hand to create a small yellow lantern to light her way. The water was black in the moonless night, the wind blowing up small waves on the inky surface. She sat next to the water, took off her boots and let her feet dangle in the shallows.

"I'm not surprised to find you still awake."

She looked behind her. Eluard came crunching out of the copse of trees, his own lantern floating at his side. He sat next to her, crossing his legs underneath him, and smiled.

"You did sleep three full days, after all."

"My body refuses rest." She looked out over the water. "But it's not just that. I've had a lot on my mind."

"Still angry about the Vir Arlethanians, eh?" Her old master nodded. "It's an unpleasant thing, watching a land eat itself alive. I've seen it a few times in my overlong life. I hope they can find a balance, for the sake of the people."

"It's just so foolish," she burst. "They were under a horrific dictator for centuries. Now that they're free of him, another dictator has taken his place."

"Yes, but that dictator is a normal mortal man. Susceptible to things like assassination and disease and impotency. And so will be his successor." Eluard patted her shoulder. "Cheer up, my girl. In a few centuries, that Vir Arlathan may be no more corrupt or tyrannical than any of the Free Marshes' city-states. Believe me, that's not so long in the scheme of things. It's time for you to put this behind you and think instead of what's next."

"That's not much better," she muttered.

He perked up. "Oh? Not looking forward to returning to Skyhold?"

"I _was_ ," she said bitterly. "Then I had to fall in love with a man who's been told to go gallivanting around Thedas saving lives and helping people and finding lost things. He's not to return to Skyhold for a year or more." She slammed her fist against her leg. "He knew for months and he didn't tell me! He let me get tangled up with him until it's impossible to free myself. And then he had the _cheek_ to ask me to throw away the life I've made and run off with him. He's given me no time to think it over – I decide in the next day to miss him or lose my library."

Eluard scratched his beard. "Yes, that is a conundrum."

"You don't think so?"

"Oh, don't ask me. The worst part about living longer than a few lifetimes is that normal troubles seem trivial." He chuckled. "You have to remind yourself over and over that they aren't, not really. Only an ass wouldn't try to remember that people are people and their problems are legitimate."

"Oh." She curled her knees into her chest and propped her feet up on the riverbank. "I just don't know what to do. This is the first time in my life that I'm free to do anything I want – there's no one hiding me away, no one forcing me to join the circle, no grand enemy to fight, and no one seeking me out. I thought I would be content back at Skyhold forever, write a few papers, join the College of Magi. There was no other path I could imagine. But when Cole asked me to go with him, it was as if the whole world shifted. Now I see two me's that I could be, and be happy being, and I don't know who to become." She huffed and muttered, "I almost hate him for it."

Eluard laughed. "You hate the man who made you see that the whole world is open to you? Because now you may want to choose the option with the most unknowns? My girl, you have always been a stubborn mule, but I never thought of you as a coward." He rapped her head with his knuckles. "Come now, you know what you want. No child of Glidda and Marcus would be happy filed away in a stuffy library for the rest of their life, pining away for their lover."

" _You_ were an academic, once."

"I still am! And so shall you be." He shrugged. "The knowledge doesn't leak out of the head from sleeping with the ground as your pillow, you know. At the very least, listen to an old man when he says, you have plenty of time to sit behind a desk when you're old."

She mulled this over.

"I'd be a real idiot to go back to Skyhold, wouldn't I?"

"The biggest of idiots."

She smiled and threw her arm around him. "Thank you, Eluard. Promise me that you won't disappear again?"

He hugged her. "Not 'til the spectre of death decides it's my time, my girl. I promise."

She pulled away and jumped up, grabbed up her boots, and ran back to camp. She wove through the tents, seeking out one in particular, dropped her boots next to the owner's own (and his hat), and crawled within. She snuggled up next to the sleeping Cole, laying her head against his chest. He stirred in his sleep, rolling on his side and hugging her close. She drifted into forgotten dreams, lulled to sleep by his steady breathing.


	37. Epilogue

It had been months since Vir Arlathan's old regime collapsed. More and more people from other lands arrived every day to see this city in the valley touted to be the only safe and free home for elves – merchants looking to buy and sell, scholars wishing to study the strange interpretation of the elven religion, diplomats wanting to create treaties. The worst, in Jules' opinion, were the pilgrims, elves from around Thedas who came looking for peace from the alienages.

Jules knew this supposed peace was a lie – the Council had determined that any pilgrims who wished to stay had to prove their devotion with years of hard labor. Indentured servitude, they called it. He knew it was truly just another form of slavery. Meanwhile, the citizens suffered from a large job shortage, given how many guilds were destroyed during the revolution. The Council claimed that people would someday have work again, but as the months passed the people who weren't physically able or had skills deemed unimportant starved.

He tried to help where he could. He took to wearing a large hat to hide his face from his former Raven brethren – the Ravens were still used as the spies and enforcers of Council law, and he would not be forced into that slavery again. He'd hide in plain sight during the day, silently working on construction crews. At night, he was out in the city, stealing from food stores to feed the citizens who were considered unworthy of full rations.

He finished his run for this evening, had delivered the last of the rations to those who worked in the shadows to see the people fed, and was walking back to the small attic room he hid himself away in for sleep. The moon was high, and the streets were empty, but he was too tired to worry about the Ravens on patrol. They were unlikely to care much for one ragged man this early in the morning.

"You do good work for the city."

The voice came from a shadowed alley. Jules paused. If it was a Raven, it would be unwise to keep walking.

"I try my best in the work details," he said carefully. "I know I'm not the best, but –"

"You know that's not what I mean. I speak of the food stolen from those who horde it. A vigilante thief! People write tales of such exploits."

A man of middling years walked out of the shadows. He was dressed in linen and fur, and wore a hood over his hairless head.

"You are one of many who work in secret for the people." The man smiled. "If you would let me, I would like to know them."

Jules was suspicious. The man was a mage, he could feel it. But there was something different about him – a strength he never felt before.

"Who are you?"

"A name is not that important," the man said with a shrug. "I've gone by many. What's important is that I work for the People as well. And I have need for agents, people like you with compassion for those in need. People who have been promised too long that the world is about to change without that promise being fulfilled."

Jules took a step back. "I'm tired of hearing people claim they're going to change the world. I just want to help where I can."

"I understand, friend." The man nodded. "I ask now only for your time and your attention. Come. I have rented a place nearby – let me make my case. Then you can decide whether or not your goal overlaps with mine."

Jules thought for a moment, considering the man. He nodded.

"I'm listening."


End file.
